‘It is very curious,’ he remarked when the narrative was finished, ‘and certainly a great stroke of luck. But it is like a tale from the “Arabian Nights.” Nay, I don’t mean on the score of veracity,’ for William Henry had flushed crimson, ‘but from its parenthetic nature. It is a story within a story; for if you can stretch your memory so far, you began with the intention of telling me why you never came to see your old friend at the “Blue Boar?”’
‘It was because I had no time, Talbot. I have to do my work at the office, and also to attend upon my new acquaintance at the Temple.’
‘You must be occupied indeed; not a moment in which to say, “How-d’ye-do? Good-morrow!”’
‘There were also my father’s injunctions. I thought such a fleeting visit as you speak of would be worse than nothing, and would cause you more annoyance than being neglected; but now my father and you are friends I will certainly find time to renew the ancient days.’
‘Come, that is better. Now shall I fill up what is wanting in your explanation and make all clear?’
‘If you please,’ said William Henry indifferently, ‘though I am not aware that there is anything more.’
‘Yes, there is your cousin Margaret,’ said Talbot, with a cunning air; ‘you would have braved the anger of the rhinoceros and followed your own inclinations—which I flatter myself would have led you to come and see me—had his favour been no more important to you than of yore. But he holds in his hand another hand, of which he has the disposal, and therefore it behoves you to be on your best behaviour.’
‘You have guessed it,’ exclaimed William Henry with admiration. ‘If I thought you could have sympathised with me, as I see you do, I should have saved you the trouble of guessing.’
‘Sympathise with you? When was son of the Muses indifferent to the love wound of his friend? Have we not always sympathised with one another? Does any one except yourself admire your poetry as much as I do? Can I anywhere find a friend more capable of appreciating the higher flights of mine than you? I have done a good deal, by-the-bye, in that way since I saw you last, Erin; not to mention six cantos of “The Spy-glass,” I have written one-and-twenty songs; some of them may be useful to you if your inspiration has flagged of late, for they are all to my mistress—whose name, like yours, is fortunately in three syllables—a madrigal or two, and a number of miscellaneous pieces, chiefly satirical. To-morrow—you said to-morrow, I think—we will devote to recitation.’
William Henry’s countenance fell. He had heard Mr. Reginald Talbot’s recitations before. They were not extempore, but they had one fatal attribute in common with extemporaneous effusions—there was no knowing where they would end. If he had been invited to recite his own poetry, that would have been a different thing.