Moore solved the problem for him unknowingly.
"Then go down," said he to Buster, "and tell my future wife that her former father is here."
Buster, relieved at the removal of responsibility, quickly left the room. Mr. Dyke looked around at the bare, unsightly walls and sadly shook his head.
"To think I should bring you to this, Thomas," he said, remorsefully.
"Sit down, Mr. Dyke, and have done with lamentations. So long as I do not complain, you surely have no reason to find fault," said Moore, cheerily.
"No, Thomas, I feel I must confess the truth to the Prince."
"What nonsense," said Moore, firmly. "No, no, Mr. Dyke, for you to confess that you wrote the poem satirizing his Highness would be the height of folly. I doubt if it would do me any good, and it certainly would completely ruin you."
"I know," began the old man, but Moore interrupted him.
"I much prefer things as they are," he said. "Allow me to choose, Mr. Dyke."
"You do not know the pangs of conscience I have suffered."