Suddenly a pair of soft round arms were around his neck, and the poem he had just read with such love and tenderness was plucked from his grasp without warning.
Moore sprang to his feet with a low cry of surprise.
"Bessie," he said, incredulously. "You?"
"Don't you know me?" she asked with a little pout, as Buster, followed by the bulldog, stole discreetly from the room. "Have you forgotten how I look so soon?"
"Forgotten?" he echoed. "Is it likely, Bessie?"
"You seem surprised to see me."
"I can't deny that," he answered in wonder. "Forgive me if I ask to what I am indebted for this visit?"
"Oh," said Bessie, indifferently, "I came to see if you have written any more poems about the Prince. Tom, how could you do it? He was so fond of you."
"That may be," replied Moore, assuming a dignified air, "but I can't let friendship interfere with my politics."
"Then it was your duty, Tom?"