"Is it not worth it?" stammered Moore, the blood rushing to his face.
"Worth it? Worth it? You must be mad, sair. No publisher half sane would dream o' paying ye half that in advance."
"Oh, come now," said Moore, trying to speak unconcernedly, and scoring a wretched failure as a result.
"I too ha' been considering the matter o' which ye speak, Mr. Moore."
"You mean you wish to withdraw your offer, sir?" cried Moore, in great alarm.
"That, Mr. Moore, is preecisely what I mean," declared McDermot, regarding the poet from beneath his bristling brows. "I ha' decided, sair, that I much exaggerated ye popularity as well as ye talents. This determination, taken togither with the terms ye ha' just suggested, leads me to wash my hands o' the whole matter. Find some ither pooblisher, Mr. Moore. Try Longmans or Mooray."
"Mr. McDermot," said Moore, forcing himself to speak calmly, thankful that the publisher and he had the smoking-room to themselves, "if the proposition I have made is unsatisfactory, pray suggest one in your turn. I will consider any you may see fit to offer."
McDermot coughed a little and shook his shining old head. That Moore was in desperate need of money was quite evident. The wily old publisher had no intention of allowing the most promising young poet of the day to slip through his fingers, yet he was quite resolved to take advantage of his extremity to drive him to as desperate a bargain as could be obtained by the craft which forty years of business life had endowed him with in addition to his natural astuteness.
"No," said he, "I 'll not haggle wi' ye. No doubt there are ithers who will gi' ye what ye ask."
This last was said in a way that plainly stated his sincere conviction that no one else would even consider the matter.