"By the Lord Harry, 'tis——"
"'Tis what?" said Fanshawe, looking at him in surprise.
"Oh, nothing!"
"Come, I scent a mystery. Unravel, sir!"
"'Tis nothing. See, Fanshawe, the dance is over. Let us go on."
Without waiting for his companion, he pushed his way back through the crowd.
"Faith, I don't understand you of late, Rochester," said Fanshawe in a half-vexed tone, when he overtook him. "You're moody, full of whimsies, all starts and surprises. Would to Heaven that the duke would bethink him of that paper you gave him! You need settling in life. Why don't you go to him, or to Lord Godolphin again? 'Tis few suitors but would show more perseverance."
"Not I. 'Twas against the grain to beg even one favour. I'd rather earn my bread by scraping a fiddle, or dancing on my knees like—like the poor fellow there."
"Well, let me tell you, you'll rue your independence. Adsbud, who would get on in this world if he didn't pay court to the great! Your starveling poet writes a flattering dedication to a lord—for pay! Your snivelling parson toadies to the lord of the manor—for a meal! I except your father, Harry; he was a rare one. 'Tis the way o' the world; we must all do it, or pay the penalty."
"Be the penalty what it will, I'll pay it rather than play lick-spittle to any man."