"The Prince?" cried Moore, dazzled at the mere idea.
"Yes, Mr. Moore, the Prince. Wales, in spite of his many faults, is a curst good fellow, and quite a judge of poetry. He shall read specimens of your skill. Fortunately Mrs. FitzHerbert, who still enjoys his Highness's favor, is mightily at odds with Sir Percival. Moreover, she was greatly pleased with the Rose poem you favored her with. I 'll get her to exert her influence with Wales. Egad, Mr. Moore, we 'll do our best for you."
"How can I thank you?" faltered Moore, hope welling up in his heart once more.
Brooking rose from his chair.
"You can repay me easily," he answered, placing his hand upon his protégé's shoulder. "Marry sweet Mistress Bessie and then keep her from Sir Percival. The happiness your wedded life should bring you both will amply reward me for any effort I may make in your behalf. If the Prince permits me to dedicate your book to him the publishers will fight for the privilege of printing it and your fortune is made, Tom Moore."
"But we have quarrelled," said Moore, hopelessly.
"Capital!" cried his lordship. "No woman tiffs with a man to whom she is indifferent. It is the sex's sweet perversity. Then, again, Tom Moore famous, for you 'll never be more than 'Tom' if success is yours--the public loves a familiar diminutive, sir--will be a different Moore from Thomas Moore unknown."
"Ah, sir, you put new courage in my heart," said Moore, catching the young nobleman's infectious enthusiasm.
"I 'll put money in your purse, which is even better, lad," replied Brooking, plunging his hand in his pocket, from which he drew it forth filled with coins of various denominations. "Write me a sonnet to send to my lady love."
"I 'll do it gladly," said Moore, seating himself at the table and with feverish haste drawing towards him pen and paper. "Is the lady blonde or brunette?"