Drys. Perhaps the delusion is encouraged by the fact that Genius occasionally condescends to answer the bell.
Und. (reddening). Do you imagine I am going down to this place simply to please them?
Drys. I should think it a doubtful kindness, in your present frame of mind; and, as you are hardly going to please yourself, wouldn't it be more dignified, on the whole, not to go at all?
Und. You never did understand me! Sometimes I think I was born to be misunderstood! But you might do me the justice to believe that I am not going from merely snobbish motives. May I not feel that such a recognition as this is a tribute less to my poor self than to Literature, and that, as such, I have scarcely the right to decline it?
Drys. Ah, if you put it in that way, I am silenced, of course.
Und. Or what if I am going to show these Patricians that—Poet of the People as I am—they can neither patronise nor cajole me?
Drys. Exactly, old chap—what if you are?
Und. I don't say that I may not have another reason—a—a rather romantic one—but you would only sneer if I told you! I know you think me a poor creature whose head has been turned by an undeserved success.
Drys. You're not going to try to pick a quarrel with an old chum, are you? Come, you know well enough I don't think anything of the sort. I've always said you had the right stuff in you, and would show it some day; there are even signs of it in Andromeda here and there; but you'll do better things than that, if you'll only let some of the wind out of your head. I like you, old fellow, and that's just why it riles me to see you taking yourself so devilish seriously on the strength of a little volume of verse which has been "boomed" for all it's worth, and considerably more. You've only got your immortality on a short repairing lease at present, old boy!
Und. (with bitterness). I am fortunate in possessing such a candid friend. But I mustn't keep you here any longer.