On the night in question Moore arrived in company with Sheridan and Brummell, the two Irishmen having spied the Beau in a cab driving to the reception at Lady Donegal's as they were making their way toward the same destination on foot. They hailed the vehicle, and when the driver had pulled up in obedience to a signal somewhat unwillingly given by Brummell, climbed in with hardly as much as a beg your leave, making themselves quite comfortable in spite of the remonstrances of the crowded and berumpled dandy, the three thus reaching her ladyship's great mansion together.
Moore paid his respects to his hostess, then, after a brief session in the card-room with Mr. Sheridan, which resulted in the enrichment of the elder Celt to the extent of two guineas, made his way to a room usually little frequented by the less intimate company, intending to give definite shape in black and white to a new song as yet unwritten, the garbled and uncompleted verses of which had been running and jumping in his head all day.
Much to his surprise, Moore found the writing desk in use, the young lady who was busy scribbling being no other than Bessie Dyke. His first impulse was to make a quiet exit, trusting to his noiselessness to effect escape undiscovered, but reflecting that, as hitherto he had not had so excellent an opportunity for an uninterrupted conversation, he would be foolish to allow such a chance for attempting to right himself in her estimation to go unutilized, he thought better of it, and so remained, announcing his presence by a polite little cough, highly suggestive of a timidity but slightly feigned.
Bessie looked up from her writing, then continued her occupation until she had completed her task.
"Does it look as though you were, Mr. Moore?" she asked, tartly.
"Not exactly," he admitted, not at all encouraged by her manner; "but appearances are deceiving, you know."
"I usually accept them as conclusive," said she, folding the sheet of paper which she had just finished.
"I know you do," said Moore, plaintively. "It is a bad habit to get into."
"No doubt you speak as an authority on the subject, Mr. Moore?"
"On bad habits? It is a bad habit I have of speaking, you mean, Mistress Dyke?"