‘You are a man of honour, I know,’ said Mr. Wallis gently; ‘but for that very reason you must not print this play.’ ‘And why not, sir?’ ‘Because it is spurious.’ ‘That was not your opinion yesterday, Mr. Wallis, nor is it mine to-day. What, because a few scoundrels have bespattered it, and done their best to make it a failure, and succeeded, you call it spurious!’ ‘Mr. Erin, I entreat you to be calm. I am as sorry for what has happened as you can be, though not, perhaps’ (here he stole a tender look at Margaret), ‘for the same reason.’ ‘It needs no ghost from the grave to assure me of that much,’ replied the antiquary derisively. ‘You have your own interests, and those of your employers, to look to, and I have mine. You are here, as I conclude, to pay me the three hundred pounds agreed upon for the play and half the profits of the first night. The house was full enough, at all events.’ ‘Yes, it was a good house. Your share of the adventure is a hundred and five pounds exactly. I have therefore to pay you four hundred and five pounds.’ ‘Very good; I cannot permit any deductions. If it was worth while to discuss the matter, I might on my part reasonably make complaint of the manner in which the play was acted. Kemble never gave it a fair chance. At Covent Garden it would have had more justice done to it, and might have met with a better fate.’ ‘Then it would have met with a fate that it did not deserve, Mr. Erin.’ ‘I do not wish to discuss the subject,’ said the antiquary curtly. His reply would probably have been much less courteous but for the production of the bills—Mr. Sheridan paid everything in bills—for the amount in question. Bills and banknotes are the best ‘soft answers’ for the turning away of wrath. ‘You misunderstand me altogether, Mr. Erin,’ continued the other with dignity. ‘I had no intention, as you seem to have apprehended, of disturbing your business arrangements with Mr. Sheridan, which may be taken as concluded. I am sorry to say I am come here upon a much more unpleasant errand. I am here at the request of your son, William Henry.’ ‘Ah! I see,’ broke in the antiquary with bitterness; ‘his professional adviser. He shall not have one penny more than the share—one-third of the profits—that has been agreed upon.’ Then he turned to Margaret. ‘So you have told him my determination of last night, have you, and he meets it by a declaration of war? Let him do as he pleases; but I warn you, hussey, that if once you throw in your lot with his, I have done with you. The money that is his by rights is not much, as you will find, to keep house upon.’