‘After behaving in so false a manner to me, sir,’ said Talbot, pointing to a very considerable heap of MSS. written in parallel lines, ‘I shall not read you my poems.’ ‘Thank you; that is returning good for evil,’ said William Henry coolly. ‘Read them to yourself and not aloud, or you will set the cats a caterwauling,’ and with that he clapped his hat on and marched out of his friend’s apartments. It was not one of those quarrels described as the renewal of love; it was a deadly feud. A woman, even if she is not as fair as Venus, may forgive an imputation on her good looks, but a poet, conscious of an inferiority to Shakespeare, does not forgive a slight inflicted on his muse. CHAPTER XI. THE LOVE-LOCK. WHETHER William Henry’s short method with Mr. Reginald Talbot was to be satisfactory or not remains to be seen, but for the present it had all the effect intended. The inmate of the ‘Blue Boar’ confined himself to his own quarters, or, at all events, did not take advantage of the general invitation given to him by Mr. Samuel Erin to visit Norfolk Street. Nor did that gentleman make any inquiry into the cause of his absence. He had done his best to pleasure his son and encourage him in his discoveries, but was well content that ‘the popinjay’ kept away. With William Henry—and this was, perhaps, even a greater proof of the change in the old man than his more active kindnesses—he was very patient and unimportunate. He would cast one look of earnest inquiry on the young fellow as he came home every evening, and, receiving a shake of the head by way of reply, would abstain from further questioning. Such was his admiration for the nameless inmate of the Temple that he respected his wish for silence, even as it were at second hand. This behaviour was most acceptable to its object, and the more so, since the reticence Mr. Erin thus observed in his own case he imposed upon his visitors, who would have otherwise subjected William Henry to the question, _forte et dure_, half a dozen times a day. He had persuaded himself that if once the mysterious visitor should get to know that a fuss was being made about that note of hand, he would withdraw his favours from his protégé altogether. One evening William Henry came home a little earlier than usual, and in return to his father’s inquiring look returned a smile full of significance. ‘I have found something, father,’ he said, ‘but you must be content, in this case, with the examination of it.’ ‘Then your friend has gone back from his word,’ replied the old man; ‘well, it was almost too much to expect that he should have kept to it.’ ‘Nay, you must not misjudge him, father, for the very restrictions he has placed upon me mean nothing but kindness. The treasure trove is this time for Margaret.’ ‘Margaret! what does he know about Margaret? Well, at all events, it is in the family.’