"It's kind of you to say that," said Moore, gratefully, though in secret vastly amused, "a successful man like you."
"Oh, I mean it, Thomas, I mean it. Why, some day I 'd not be surprised if you were rated as a poet almost as high as Robin Dyke."
"You don't mean it, sir?"
"Almost, I said almost," repeated the old gentleman, fearful lest he had raised hope too high in his fellow author's breast.
"I heard you," said Moore, dryly, while Buster and Lord Castlereagh shared their indignation at the fireplace to which they had retired.
"I must get along now," announced Mr. Dyke, as though desirous of gently breaking the news of his approaching departure. "Oh, you will laugh your sides sore when you read that poem, Thomas."
"Will I?" asked Moore, doubtfully.
Mr. Dyke turned at the door with a chuckle.
"I almost envy you the fun, my lad. Oh, it's monstrous witty."
And fairly shaking with merriment at the mental contemplation of his own humor, the old gentleman toddled down the stairs, quite at peace with the world at large and even more satisfied with himself.