"You don't say so, sir? Are you sure?"
"Sure as man can be. They are off on their honeymooning now. I had a letter from Squire Farrell himself. By the way, Terence has come to London and is studying law."
"I hope the rascal will keep out of my way," said Moore, viciously. "A sneak, if ever there was one."
"You quarrelled with him, Thomas?"
"I did, sir, and licked him well, too. Tell me, Mr. Dyke, is Bessie still angry with me?"
The old gentleman sighed and put on his glasses.
"I am afraid so, Thomas," he said, gravely. "She never mentions your name, though I do my best to interest her in your doings. Now for the poem, lad. It is a satire, Thomas, a satire on the Prince of Wales. Oh, I cook him to a turn, Thomas. Ah, how he would squirm if I dared to have it published."
Moore leaned over the table and took the manuscript from his guest in a manner more vigorous than polite.
"If you did have it published, you 'd be dropped by society like a hot potato, and Bessie would lose her position at Drury Lane," he said. "You would be in a nice fix then, would n't you, Robin Dyke, Esquire?"
"If worst came to worst, even then I would still have the pension guaranteed me by Sir Percival," replied the elder poet, obstinately.