Mr. Lovely was awaiting a draught for one hundred guineas, and Mr. Paul Virgin, glad of anything that would delay for a while such an unwelcome disbursement, continued to bow and smirk over the counter as the neat little piles of new volumes speedily diminished. At last the hour for the midday meal arrived with a temporary lull in the storm of purchasers. Mr. Virgin turned with a sigh into his little back parlour and, wading carefully through the heaps of uncatalogued tomes, set out with a wry face to unlock his walnut writing-cabinet.
"We were hurried too much, Mr. Lovely, sir. We han't had leisure to bind the book as it should be bound. Ye would hurry us so, Mr. Lovely."
"You wouldn't pay me till the book was published, and I want the money, so d----n all grumbling and be grateful that you'll make a small fortune."
"A small fortune! What a jester you are, Mr. Lovely. I declare you put me in mind of the old plays, such jests!"
Mr. Paul Virgin seated before his cabinet, was writing the draught with tardy fingers.
"There ye are, Mr. Lovely, and never say I don't treat ye with consideration, with generosity, sir, for I dare swear I shall lose fifty pounds sterling by this adventure."
"Be d----d, you peevish rogue. Why all the world of fashion has thronged your shop since nine o'clock this morning."
"Yes, but it takes a deal to make a hundred guineas. Now let me make it pounds, Mr. Lovely, sir. Do let me make it pounds."
The latter snatched the draught from the old young bookseller and, having read it through with much deliberation, transferred it to the seclusion of his innermost pocket.
After this transaction, which was effected with a singular grace, I am sorry to add that he put his tapered finger to his tapered nose and winked several times at the disconsolate Mr. Virgin.
"The books are so ill-bound, look at this one, Mr. Lovely, your honour. The leaves are falling apart already, just because you would hurry us so terribly."
Mr. Lovely stooped and picked up some loose pages.
"Ay, 'tis autumn already with this copy," he said, glancing casually at the page he held in his hand. "Why who wrote this?"
"I wrote this--this d----d vile verse, this--" and Charles read aloud the lines that so dismayed our heroine. "I wrote this damnable doggerel? By G----, Mr. Virgin, I never wrote this."