"Ahem--er--Mr. Moore," began the clerk in a businesslike tone, "permit me to deliver to you the message of my employer. I really am pressed for time, sir."
"Go ahead," said Moore, seating himself on the opposite side of the table near which his guest was sitting. "You may command me, Mr. Gannon."
"Mr.--er--er--McDermot--ahem--wishes me to inform you that your poetry is delightful. The language is beautiful."
"Yes?" said Moore, interrogatively, now in the seventh heaven of delight. "Really, Mr. Gannon?"
"Each metaphor he declares is as delicate as it is charming."
"Yes?"
"Your rhymes are perfect, Mr. Moore."
"Yes?"
"In fact Mr. McDermot wishes me to assure you that the highest praise can be lavished on your work, Mr. Moore, the highest praise."
"He is too kind, Mr. Gannon, he is too kind," cried the poet, rising in his excitement.