In the gestures of William Jordan was a calm authority that his friend did not seek to withstand. With a somewhat disconcerted bewilderment he deferred to the poet.
“Luney, old boy,” he said nervously, “I have been making a few inquiries about the publication of poetry. Octavius says there is not a publisher in London who would touch your—your poem, unless it happened to be something quite out of the way.”
The faces of father and son seemed to embody a single yet occult meaning, yet the eyes of the poet now held no lustre.
“Fear not, good friend,” said William Jordan in his soft, clear speech, yet in a tone of such curious sombre irony as Jimmy Dodson had never heard upon his lips before. “I do not think you need fear to carry my little treatise on human life to the house of Crumpett and Hawker at No. 24 Trafalgar Square.”
The poet laughed a gentle laughter which caused his friend to look at him in bewilderment.
“Luney, old boy,” he said, “what has happened to you lately? I always used to say, you know, that no power on earth would cause you to laugh. You always used to be so serious.”
“I laugh now, Jimmy, because I am so happy,” said the poet.
“And what has made you so happy, old boy?” said his friend.
“The knowledge, Jimmy, that I am a prince of the blood.”
Jimmy Dodson gave a gasp of bewilderment. In mute astonishment he gazed at him who made this inordinate statement; who sat so grave and so composed, and whose singularly clear voice uttered the words with a sincerity which made them seem rational. “I can’t understand him, I can’t understand him!” muttered Jimmy Dodson in dismay. “His words and his acts are totally wrong, yet I never saw a man who seemed so marvellously right.”