_T._ Heavens! what has possessed my master, and what’s to happen to me? O wala, wala! It all comes of love: or rather, I should say, it all came of my hat. I would it had been consumed entirely. This hole in the crown is not to be mended ... and all round ’tis like tinder, it breaks with a touch. Of what contemptible material are these hats made! It might have been sewn up else. Now ’tis a picture of me. Yes, the hat is me, as it were; the hole in the crown is the ruin of my fortunes wrought upon me by the fiery lamp, which is my love for Flora. There’s a parable. Could I write a poem on this, it might appease the Countess. Deary me! What are Flora and I to do? Money being the root of all evil, I must look first to that. All depends on that. Let me see what I can muster. There’s my pay; there’s the Countess’present, and my little savings. (_turns out his purse and pockets on to the table._) I’ll put it all in heaps of ten. No, heaps of five: better in fives, there’ll be more heaps; and there’s comfort in the number of heaps. Tho’less lordly, ’twill be more showy. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty. (_knocking at door._) Come in,—twenty-five. _Enter St. Nicholas._ _ST. NICHOLAS._ Tristram! Where’s your master? _T._ Twenty-five. My master’s no more. Twenty-six. _N._ Frederick is dead? _T._ (_singing_). What dead, my dearie? Oh no, my dearie. _N._ What is this nonsense, Tristram? _T._ When I meet with a poet, St. Nicholas, I can speak poetry. 2430 _N._ I came to see your master, Tristram; and you said he was dead. _T._ I said he was no more, not that he was dead: and, as I say, he is no more my master. I am, as ’twere, a gentleman at large; and I sit here by invitation, engaged on my own affairs, which do not need assistance. _N._ I came to see your master on important business, Tristram. Be civil enough to tell me where he is. _T._ My master is nowhere. This was twenty-six. _N._ I shall wait for him here. _T._ Well, if you choose to wait, I know what you come after. ’Tis not the sonnet. _N._ When will Frederick be back, Tristram? _T._ But I’ll give you back your sonnet, if you will write me a poem about my hat, this hat. ’Tis but to versify my own imaginations. See! I am the hat: the hole in it is my discharge: the flame which burnt the hole is Flora,—that’s the Countess’maid. All is good. There’s the blackness of the hat, the fire of the lamp, the abysm of the hole: it lacks but the moon, which you might shift to see through the crown; and if you could weave in with that your sphinx and something about death, I think that I might tickle the Countess’ ear to reconsider of my discharge; for she loves poetry. _N._ Curse thy impertinence, Tristram. Where’s thy master? _T._ I will shew you where your master is, if you curse me or aught of mine, master Nick.