"Egad," he said, gently, as though in veiled wonderment. "Wit, and from such a source."
"A sauce of wit makes game more savory," returned Moore, not at all irritated at the baronet's accent of superiority. "And I know your game," he added in an undertone.
"Indeed?"
"In deed and in thought, too," answered Moore, cheerfully. "You will not succeed, my good sir."
"Will you prevent me, Mr. Moore?"
"I fancy so, Sir Percival."
The baronet raised his voice, so that the conversation, hitherto inaudible to the others, who were clustered at the side of the room, could be easily heard. He did this intending to overwhelm this youth, whom he despised both as a rustic and as an Irishman, with the apt and stinging wit that had made him famous even in London drawing-rooms accustomed to the sparkling sallies and epigrams of Sheridan and Rogers. He regarded the conversational defeat of Moore as an easy task, and proceeded to attempt it with a confidence born of many hard-fought victories won in the brilliantly flippant circle surrounding the Prince of Wales, a society that could only be described as pyrotechnically witty.
"I understand that you write poetry, Mr. Moore."
"But you would not understand the poetry I write."
"But I might buy some of it. I am not over particular as to merit, you see."