"Why, if it is not Mr. Dyke," cried Sir Percival, cheerily, quite as though he were overjoyed at the meeting. "Good-day to you, sir. I hope it finds you sound in health."
Dyke flushed with pleasure at the heartiness of the great gentleman's greeting. He was a pleasant-faced old man, simple and good-hearted, too prone to trust in the honor of others, but erring only by giving them credit for benevolence and honesty equal to his own. He was quite a portly old person, with a face strongly lined in spite of its placid expression. His hair, worn rather long as became a poet, was a wavy, shimmery gray, and he walked with a rambling sort of gait that suggested vaguely a compromise between a stride and a toddle. Sir Percival's quick eye caught sight of a suggestive roll of manuscript sticking out of the new-comer's pocket.
"Ah!" exclaimed the baronet, tapping the paper with his cane. "I see a paper peeking from your coat, Mr. Dyke. Another poem, I 'll be bound. Come now, sir, out with it. I swear, we will hear it, eh, Brooking?"
"I 'm afraid we will," murmured his lordship beneath his breath, but he bowed in pleasant assent in reply to the old gentleman's inquiring look.
"What?" continued Sir Percival. "Too modest, eh? Then I will read it myself," and, with a gesture gracefully apologetic for the liberty, he drew the roll from Dyke's pocket.
"Really, Sir Percival," stammered the old man, in pleased embarrassment. "My poor effort--"
"Your poor effort," repeated Sir Percival, scanning the first page through his eyeglass, as he spoke. "If this be his poor effort, Brooking, what would his best be?"
"God knows!" murmured Brooking to himself, "I hate to think of it."
Sir Percival's quick ear caught his lordship's muttered remark, so, as the flustered poet crossed to the window in hope of obtaining a glimpse of the absent schoolmistress, the baronet turned to Brooking with a laugh.
"Perhaps God knows," he whispered, "or perhaps it is better known in the other place. Look at it, Brooking."