“I thought I'd ha' dropped, sir, when it came to Diggory at the table--and Mr. Marlow's man, sir--as drunk as a lord. 'I don't know what more you want unless you'd have had him soused in a beer barrel,' says he quite cool-like and satisfied--and it's the gentleman's own private house, after all. Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! Didn't Sir Joshua's Ralph laugh till he thought our neighbours would think it undignified-like, and then sent us off worse than ever by trying to look solemn. Only some fools about us said the drunk servant was ungenteel; but young Mr. Northcote--Sir Joshua's young man, sir--he up and says that nature isn't always genteel, and that nature was above gentility, and so forth--I beg your pardon, Doctor, what was I thinking of? Why, sir, Diggory himself couldn't ha' done worse than me--talking so familiar-like, instead of showing you up.” “Nay, sir,” said Goldsmith, “the patron has the privilege of addressing his humble servant at what length he please. You are one of my patrons, George; but strike me dumb, sir, I'll be patronised by you no longer; and, to put a stop to your airs, I'll give you half a dozen tickets for my benefit, and that will turn the tables on you, my fine fellow.” “Oh, Doctor, you are too kind, sir,” whispered the man, for he had led the way to the drawingroom door. “I hope I've not been too bold, sir. If I told them in the kitchen about forgetting myself they'd dub me Diggory without more ado. There'll be Diggorys enough in the servants' halls this year, sir.” In another moment Goldsmith was in the presence of Mary Horneck. She was seated on a low chair at the window. He could not fail to notice that she looked ill, though it was not until she had risen, trying to smile, that he saw how very ill she was. Her face, which he had scarcely ever seen otherwise than bright, had a worn appearance, her eyes were sunken through much weeping, and there was a frightened look in them that touched him deeply. “You will believe me when I say how sorry I was not to be able to do honour last night to the one whom I honour most of all men,” she said, giving him her hand. “But it was impossible--oh, quite impossible, for me to sup even with my sister and you. Ah, it was pitiful! considering how I had been looking forward to your night of triumph, my dear friend.” “It was pitiful, indeed, dear child,” said he. “I was looking forward to that night also--I don't know for how many years--all my life, it seems to me.” “Never mind!” she cried, with a feeble attempt at brightness. “Never mind! your night of triumph came, and no one can take it away from you now; every one in the town is talking of your comedy and its success.” “There is no one to whom success is sweeter than it is to me,” said Goldsmith. “But you know me too well, my Jessamy Bride, to think for a single moment that I could enjoy my success when my dearest friend was miserable.”