"More likely it was indigestion, sir."
"You took the blame for my folly. I went free, but your brilliant career was cut short."
"Very short," admitted the poet, who was seated on the table, comfortably swinging his legs. "But the shortening is frequently the most important part of the dish."
"Your rising star was plucked cruelly from the sky before reaching its zenith."
"Between friends, you can omit the poetry," suggested Moore. "It seems like talking shop if I may say so without offence."
"I see you are resolved," said the old man weakly.
"Ah, yes," replied the poet, jumping off the table, and approaching his future father-in-law, he laid his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder.
"It is all for the best, sir," he went on with a sincerity that was convincing. "I did not know, I was not sure, that your daughter loved me. She, bless her pretty head, was too full of life and laughter to read her own heart. My adversity has brought her to me with outstretched arms and a love more tender, more true, than even I dreamed it could be. No, no, sir. Keep your mouth shut to please me."
"It is really your wish that I do this?"
"Sure it is," replied Moore, satisfied that he had carried his point.