TWO POETS.
‘WHAT on earth is the meaning of all this?’ was the first question that Reginald Talbot put to his friend, when they found themselves alone together.
‘Of all what?’ returned William Henry indifferently. ‘Here are pipes, by the way; will you smoke a little tobacco?’
‘There it is again,’ cried Talbot; ‘I say once more, what is the meaning of it? The idea of your respectable father permitting us to smoke under his roof. Why, it was only, as it were, under protest that he was wont to permit you to breathe. Then, as for me, he used to think me something worse than one of the wicked; an anomalous emanation from Grub Street; a sort of savage with cash in his pocket: whereas his tone to me now is as the honey of Hybla. What magic has wrought this change in the old curmudgeon?’
‘Well, perhaps of late he has got to understand me better, and consequently my friends, suggested William Henry.
‘Oh, that can’t be it,’ replied Talbot contemptuously; ‘I should say if he knew as much about you as I did he would behave worse to you than ever. I don’t mean anything offensive to you, my dear fellow,’ added the speaker, for his companion’s face had grown very troubled; ‘on the contrary, I compliment you. It’s just those qualities I admire most in you which would least recommend you to his good graces. On the other hand, if you have a fault in my eyes, it is an excess of caution. Come, be frank with me, what is the tune which has set this rhinoceros a dancing?’
‘I have had the good fortune to find an old manuscript which has put my father in high good humour.’
‘And the young lady, your cousin, is she, too, enamoured of old manuscripts?’
‘Well, not that I am aware of,’ laughed William Henry.