“Why, yes, sir, if the King were an ordinary gentleman,” replied Goldsmith. Whitefoord, who never could resist the chance of making a pun, whispered to Oliver that in respect of some Kings there was more of the ordinary than the gentleman about them, and when Miss Reynolds insisted on his phrase being repeated to her, Johnson became grave. “Sir,” he cried, turning once more to Goldsmith, “there is a very flagrant example of what you would bring about. When a monarch, even depicted in his robes and with the awe-inspiring insignia of his exalted position, is not held to be beyond the violation of a punster, what would he be if shown in ordinary garb? But you, sir, in your aims after what you call the natural, would, I believe, consider seriously the advisability of the epitaphs in Westminster Abbey being written in English.” “And why not, sir?” said Goldsmith; then, with a twinkle, he added, “For my own part, sir, I hope that I may live to read my own epitaph in Westminster Abbey written in English.” Every one laughed, including--when the bull had been explained to her--Angelica Kauffman. After supper Sir Joshua put his fair guest into her chair, shutting its door with his own hands, and shortly afterwards Johnson and Whitefoord went off together. But still Goldsmith, at the suggestion of Reynolds, lingered in the hope that Baretti would call. He had probably been detained at the house of a friend, Reynolds said, and if he should pass Leicester Square on his way home, he would certainly call to explain the reason of his absence from the meeting. When another half-hour had passed, however, Goldsmith rose and said that as Sir Joshua's bed-time was at hand, it would be outrageous for him to wait any longer. His host accompanied him to the hall, and Ralph helped him on with his cloak. He was in the act of receiving his hat from the hand of the servant when the hall-bell was rung with starling violence. The ring was repeated before Ralph could take the few steps to the door. “If that is Baretti who rings, his business must be indeed urgent,” said Goldsmith. In another moment the door was opened, and the light of the lamp showed the figure of Steevens in the porch. He hurried past Ralph, crying out so as to reach the ear of Reynolds. “A dreadful thing has happened tonight, sir! Baretti was attacked by two men in the Haymarket, and he killed one of them with his knife. He has been arrested, and will be charged with murder before Sir John Fielding in the morning. I heard of the terrible business just now, and lost no time coming to you.” “Merciful heaven!” cried Goldsmith. “I was waiting for Baretti in order to warn him.” “You could not have any reason for warning him against such an attack as was made upon him,” said Steevens. “It seems that the fellow whom Baretti was unfortunate enough to kill was one of a very disreputable gang well known to the constables. It was a Bow street runner who stated what his name was.”