"And tell me, tell me, William Price, who was the mother of your son?" the Poet shouted.
"What in Hell or under it is that to you?" came in very full-throated accents from the open window.
"Why is your bedstead all made of wood?" thundered the relentless Poet in stentorian tones.
"Hey, stop that!" cried the voice from the window.
But the Poet continued his questions unperturbed.
"Why have you half forgotten your own son, William Price? Why do you sleep all day, Father William, and pretend to be more stupid than the grave? Do you think a Poet cannot see through the film you cast over your happy eyes?"
"Eh, what are you driving at?" exclaimed Sir Price in a voice no longer angry but rather tremulous.
"Who are your guests to-night, old man, who are your guests to-night?" yelled the Poet, positively dancing with malicious satisfaction.
"Why, be you one of them that know?" cried the old man in a new tone of something like awe and something like fellowship.
"I am one of the chief of those that know," replied the Poet; "for me shutters unbar, for me the music pipes, and even my companion for all he can wrap his soul up in the wisdom of Oxford town shall see the fairies haunting.