I cannot do it, David. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. Tum, tum, tirray, tum, tum, tum, te-tum—that thing of Mendelssohn’s! If making one human being absolutely happy is any satisfaction to you—” He held out his hands, and she also stood up. Born on a South Sea island, she said.
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