The poet rose to his feet, with some dignity.
"I am not in love, Thomas," he said. "I—I never even think about such things." Tommy turned back.
"I say, if you're going to the post-office with that will you buy me some elastic—for my catty, you know?" he said.
Just then the housekeeper entered, and Tommy went out upon the lawn.
"Please, sir, there's a friend o' Mister Thomas's a settin' in the kitchen, an' 'e's bin there a hower, pretty nigh—an' 'is talk—it fairly makes me blood rise, and me pore stomach that sour—an', please, 'e wants ter know if Mister Thomas is ready to go after them rats 'e was talkin' of, an' if the Cholmondeleys, which is me blood relations, 'ad 'eard 'im—Lord."
Mrs. Chundle wiped her brow at this appalling supposition, and the poet gazed helplessly at her.
"Did you say a friend of Mr. Thomas's?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, an' that common 'e—'e's almost took the shine off of the plates."
"Dear, dear! how very—very peculiar, Mrs. Chundle."
A genial, red countenance appeared at the doorway.