"Oh, Terence," said he, rousing from his reverie as the former entered, "is the poem printed?"
Farrell drew a copy of the Examiner from his pocket.
"Here it is in the evening's issue," said he. "Evidently his Highness has not yet stumbled on it, though every one else seems to have done so."
Tom Moore meets Bessie Dyke at Sir Percival's.
"Droll that the Prince should come here in the author's company," said Sir Percival, scanning the sheet, in the corner of which was the poem he had purloined from Moore's garret.
"A propitious happening, sir," returned Farrell. "I have not begun the circulation of the author's name. Is it the proper time, think you?"
"Not yet, my dear Terence. Half an hour from now will be quite soon enough. Egad, these verses sting, or I 'm no judge of satire. When the Prince does finally set eyes upon them there will be an outburst. A flood of anger will result on which the writer of this masterpiece will be borne away to oblivion."
"Moore is high in favor now."
"The higher the elevation the greater the fall, Terence."