"You mean it, Bessie?" cried the half-frantic poet, as the door was sent slamming back by the entrance of Lord Brooking with Buster and the bulldog close at his heels.
"Lord Brooking, is it true?"
"The Prince declares himself honored by the dedication," replied his lordship triumphantly. "McDermot publishes your book in a week."
Moore gave a choking sob of joy as he groped his way toward his benefactor.
"At last!" he whispered, "at last!" and buried his face on his lordship's sturdy shoulder, his eyes full of glad tears.
"There, there, Tom," said the young nobleman. "It is quite true. Your luck has finally changed. There shall be no more striving and starving for you, my good lad. Your fortune is made."
"Ah," cried Moore, turning to where Bessie stood, her hands tightly clasped and her face radiant with gladness as she watched her lover's realization of the truth. "You hear, Bessie? It's success, girl, it's fortune and renown. Aye, fortune, Bessie. Now you will marry me?"
The girl turned white with anger and shame. Moore had made a fatal choice of the words with which he re-declared his love, never thinking his meaning could be misunderstood.
"Tom," said Lord Brooking, warningly, but Bessie interrupted him before he could put things right.
"How dare you?" she cried, her cheeks suddenly flaming as she faced the luckless poet.