"Ah," said Farrell, "and why, sir?"
"'T will ruin Moore," replied the baronet, regarding the other in surprise.
Farrell surveyed the attic with a contemptuous stare before answering.
"Surely, Sir Percival, this shabby hole is not indicative of either success or affluence," said he slowly. "One does not dig into the earth to crush a worm under foot."
"You speak in riddles, Terence," observed Sir Percival, pleasantly puzzled.
"I 'll make my meaning plain, sir. Tom Moore does not annoy you now. Wait till he succeeds, if he ever does so, before you publish that poem. The time to spoil his career is when he has accomplished something and is about to climb higher. He is starving here."
"Stab me, if you are not right, Terence," exclaimed the baronet, approvingly. "I will keep this bit of humor in reserve, and you shall be witness that I found it fresh from Moore's pen upon his table."
"Willingly," said Farrell. "Meanwhile, continue your pursuit of Mistress Dyke. Are you making progress there?"
"As yet I 've gained no ground at all so far as I can see," replied Sir Percival in a discontented tone. "True, I have apparently won her trust and friendship, but that is because my behavior has been above criticism. No young curate could be more circumspect and exemplary than I have been. To tell the truth, Terence, I am cursed weary of being respectable."
"I can understand how irksome such restraint must be to you, Sir Percival," said Farrell, carelessly, "but you must play your own hand. I have helped you all I can in the securing of cards. My trick in the school-house ruined Moore in the girl's estimation, thus clearing the way for your approach."