"Indeed?" cried Moore. "Won't you have a chair, Mr. Gannon?"
"I will, thank you," replied the clerk, for such he was, seating himself with much dignity, a performance given a humorous tinge by the unsuccessful attempt he made to cross his fat little legs. "I have called at Mr. McDermot's request to see you about your poems."
"You are more than welcome, I am sure," replied Moore.
"Mr. McDermot has read the manuscript volume you submitted, and takes great pleasure in saying he has never read anything better; great pleasure."
Moore gave a sigh of relief and grew quite light-headed with delight. Here was real appreciation. Genius was about to be recognized at last. Ugly, ill-tempered, little Gannon became in the poet's eyes suddenly invested with the beautiful characteristics and perfect exterior of a cherub, a little over-grown and shapeless, perhaps, but nevertheless cherubic. He wondered how he could for the moment have so greatly disliked this herald of prosperity.
"Mr. Gannon, you are thirsty, I know," stammered Moore. "You must be after such a walk. I insist that you drink with me, sir. What shall it be?"
"Since you insist I 'll try a little port," said the clerk, obligingly.
"Unfortunately," replied the poet, "that is one thing I have n't in my possession. I'm like a loaded ship, sir, just out of port. But I 'll give you something better."
"Will you?"
"I 've the finest drink in the world in that cupboard, sir. One that will make life seem like a dream of blue sky and roses to you."