After a mere pretence of a meal, the antiquary produced pen and ink, and proceeded to make some calculations.
In the middle of them arrived Mr. Albany Wallis. His face was even graver than usual, which his host, however, thought natural enough. He took it for granted that he had come upon business connected with the play, the failure of which was sufficient to account for his depression; or his melancholy, perhaps, might have been put on with a view of cheapening the terms that had been agreed upon with his employers. But Margaret felt, the first instant she caught sight of the visitor’s face, that he knew all, and did not need that dumb assurance of human sympathy, the close, lingering pressure of his hand, to convince her of it.
‘This is a bad job,’ said Mr. Erin, with a pretence of briskness. ‘I suppose Sheridan will not give the play another chance?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mr. Wallis decisively. ‘Almeyda is on the bill for to-morrow.’
‘Then there is nothing for it but to settle, and have done with it. It is quite as great a disappointment to me as to the management, I do assure you, and eventually will be as great a loss. I have ordered the paper for the publication of the play, and must needs go on with it. I cannot break faith with the public.’
‘You are a man of honour, I know,’ said Mr. Wallis gently; ‘but for that very reason you must not print this play.’
‘And why not, sir?’
‘Because it is spurious.’
‘That was not your opinion yesterday, Mr. Wallis, nor is it mine to-day. What, because a few scoundrels have bespattered it, and done their best to make it a failure, and succeeded, you call it spurious!’
‘Mr. Erin, I entreat you to be calm. I am as sorry for what has happened as you can be, though not, perhaps’ (here he stole a tender look at Margaret), ‘for the same reason.’