As he seemed to wish it, I read his correspondence, while he absently twirled the poker in his hands, and gnashed his teeth.
"What is the matter with you, old man?" I asked. "These notes seem to be very modestly and properly expressed:—
"Dear Sir,—You will be astonished at receiving a letter from a total stranger; but the sympathy of our tastes, which I detect in all you write, induces me to send you my little work on The Folk Lore of Tavern Signs."
Here St. Barbe sat down on the hearth, and scattered ashes on his head, in a manner unbecoming an Englishman.
"I don't see what annoys you so," I remarked, "or in this:—
"Dear Mr. St. Barbe,—You will not remember me, but I met you once at Lady Caerulea Smithfield's, and therefore I take the liberty of sending you my little book of verses."
Here he rolled on the floor and gnawed the castor of a chair. I had heard of things like this in the time of the Plantagenets, but I never expected to see nowadays such ferocity of demeanour.
"It is signed Mary Middlesex," I said. "She's very pretty, and a Countess, or something of that sort. What's the matter with you?"
"Try the next," he said.
