to mess president” at the lower corner; here were invitations to breakfasts, to luncheons, to afternoon squawks, to Sunday dinners, to dances and crushes, in short, to every possible kind of diversion and frivolity that the gay world of London could devise.  He went steadily on with his letters.  More photographers wanted him to sit to them.  Would he accept the dedication of “The Squire’s Daughter Fantasia”?  The composer of “The Starry Night Valses” would like a lithographic portrait of Mr. Lionel Moore to appear on the cover.  A humble admirer of Mr. Lionel Moore’s great impersonation of Harry Thornhill begged to forward the enclosed acrostic, and might he be allowed to print it in the Mudborough Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Magazine?  Messrs. Smith & Smith would be extremely obliged if Mr. Lionel Moore would honor them with his opinion of the accompanying pair of their patent silver-mounted automatic self-adjusting braces.

“If I don’t get a secretary,” he muttered to himself, “I shall soon be in a mad-house.”

Nor did he pay much attention to his breakfast when it was put on the table, for there were newspapers to be opened and glanced through—­country journals, most of them, with marked paragraphs conveying the most unexpected, and even startling, intelligence regarding himself, his occupations, and forthcoming engagements.  Then there were the book packets and the rolls of music to be examined; but by this time he had lit an after-breakfast cigarette, and was proceeding with something of indifference.  Occasionally he strolled about the room, or went to the window and looked down into the roaring highway of Piccadilly, or across to the sunny foliage and pale-blue mists of the Green Park.  And then, in the midst of his vague meditations, the following note was brought to him; it had been delivered by hand: 

“MY DEAR MR. MOORE,—­I do so awfully want to see you, about a matter of urgent importance.  Do be good-natured and come and lunch with us—­any time before half-past two, if possible.  It will be so kind of you.  I hope the morning performance has done you no harm.

Yours, sincerely, ADELA CUNYNGHAM.”

Well, luncheon was not much in his way, for he usually dined at five; nevertheless, Lady Adela was an especial friend of his and had been very kind to him, and here was some serious business.  So he hurried through what correspondence was absolutely necessary; he sent word to Green’s stables that he should not ride that morning; he walked round to a certain gymnasium and had three quarters of an hour with the fencing-master (this was an appointment which he invariably held sacred); on his way back to his rooms he called in at Solomon’s for a buttonhole; and then, having got home and made certain alterations in his toilet, he went out again, jumped into a hansom, and was driven up to the top of Campden Hill, arriving there shortly after one o’clock.