Mr. Chickson turned his eyes upward to the ceiling, and then downward to
the floor, as if he were committing what he had heard to memory, and
then said it was very curious, but he had thought of the same theme
before, and was intending to write a poem on it next week.
"Now, that's just like you, you provoking creature!" said Mrs. Slapman,
tapping the poet playfully with her fan. "It's really selfish of you to
keep all your poetical thoughts for your poems."
Mr. Chickson smiled pleasantly, but said nothing; and when Mrs.
Slapman's attention was momentarily attracted by a passing remark from
another person, the poet improved the opportunity to slip away and take
another glass of champagne in the corner.
"Ah! gone, is he?" said Mrs. Slapman, remarking his disappearance.
"Though one of the most promising of our young poets, he is dull enough
in conversation. It may be said of him, as of Goldsmith, 'He writes like
an angel, but talks like poor Poll.' You may have read his poem, 'Echoes
of the Empyrean,' published in the _Weekly Lotus_."
Mr. Overtop was wicked enough to say that he had read and admired it.
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