"Mr. Dunquerque, not a day passes but you load me with obligations. Tell me, if you please, who they are."
"Well, you will say I have done pretty well, I think." Jack pulled out a paper. "And you will know most of the names. First of all, you would like to see the old Philosopher of Cheyne Walk, Thomas Carlyle, as your guest?"
"Carlyle, sir, is a name to conjure with in the States. When I was Editor of the Clearville Roarer I had an odd volume of Carlyle, and I used to quote him as long as the book lasted. It perished in a fight. And to think that I shall meet the man who wrote that work! An account of the dinner must be written for the Rockoleaville Gazette. We'll have a special reporter, Mr. Dunquerque. We'll get a man who'll do it up to the handle."
Jack looked at his list again.
"What do you say of Professor Huxley and Mr. Darwin?"
Mr. Beck shook his head. These two writers began to flourish—that is, to be read—in the States after his editorial days, and he knew them not.
"I should say they were prominent citizens, likely, if I knew what they'd written. Is Professor Huxley a professing Christian? There was a Professor Habukkuk Huckster once down Empire City way in the Moody and Sankey business, with an interest in the organs and a percentage on the hymn-books; but they're not relations, I suppose? Not probable. And the other genius—what is his name—Darwin? Grinds novels perhaps?"
"Historical works of fiction. Great in genealogy is Darwin."
"Never mind my ignorance, Mr. Dunquerque. And go on, sir. I'm powerful interested."
"Ruskin is coming; and I had thought of Robert Browning, the poet, but I am afraid he may not be able to be present. You see, Browning is so much sought after by the younger men of the day. They used to play polo and billiards and other frivolous things till he came into fashion with his light and graceful verse, so simple that all may understand it. His last poem, I believe, is now sung about the streets. However, there are Tennyson and Swinburne—they are both coming. Buchanan I would ask, if I knew him, but I don't. George Eliot, of course, I could not invite to a stag party. Trollope we might get, perhaps——"