“I told them so!” he vociferated, wagging his head. “I told them so when his Satire first came out. Curse catch me, d’ye ever know of such a triumph? That speech was the spark to the powder. It was cute of Murray to issue last night. Every newspaper in town clapping its hands and bawling bigger adjectives. Genius and youth—ah, what a combination it is!”
He took a pinch of snuff and descended upon the heap of cards and billets, picking up each in turn between thumb and forefinger and looking at it with a squint. “‘Lord Carlisle,’” he read—“his guardian, eh? Wouldn’t introduce him in the Lords two years ago. ‘Colonel Greville’—wanted to fight George once for a line in his Satire about high-play in the Argyle Club! He’s cooing gently now! Blue-tinted note—smells of violets. Humph! More notes—seven of ’em! Fletcher, you old humbug, d’ye know your master at this moment is the greatest man in London?”
“Yes, Mr. Sheridan.”
“Oh, you do? Knew it all along, I suppose. Doesn’t surprise you one bit, eh?”
“No, Mr. Sheridan.”
“Curse catch me!—”
“Yes, Mr. Sheridan.”
Moore laughed, and the older man, cackling at the valet’s matter-of-fact expression, continued his task: “Card from the Bishop of London—Lord deliver us! Another letter—where have I seen that silver crest? Why, the Melbourne arms, to be sure! By the handwriting, it’s from the countess herself. ‘Lord Heathcote’—‘Lord Holland.’ It’s electric! It’s a contagion! All London is mad to-day, mad over George Gordon!”
“I passed Murray’s shop an hour ago,” declared Moore. “There was a string of carriages at the door like the entrance of Palace Yard. Murray told me he will have booked orders for fourteen thousand copies before nightfall.”
As the other threw down the mass of stationery, he spied the bottle which Gordon had half emptied.