"Nonsense!" said the girl. "I don't care a snap of my fingers for the theatre. I was never intended to be an actress."
"I know," assented the poet, "you were meant to be Mrs. Moore, darling."
"I think you are quite mistaken, sir."
"How cold you are to me," cried Moore in despair. "Is it because--? No, I can't believe that. Bessie, you don't care for Sir Percival?"
"Really, Mr. Moore, I cannot discuss my private affairs with you," said Bessie in a voice so cold and proud that Moore abandoned all hope of moving her.
"Then," he asked defiantly, "why have you come here?"
Bessie turned to him with a little sobbing sigh of relief. She had played her part well and kept up the artifice to the last moment required by the object which she had intended to accomplish, but the task had been more difficult than she had expected.
"Why?" she cried, her voice thrilling with love and happiness. "To tell you that you need battle with poverty no longer, Tom Moore. You have won, Tom, you have won. Fame, fortune--all that you have dreamed of and fought for so long--so patiently and courageously--shall be yours. I bring you a message from the Prince of Wales."
"From the Prince?" gasped Moore.
"Yes, Tom. He accepts the dedication of your book. Lord Brooking sent me to tell you the news."