“But they were connected with newspapers?—­then they must know the men who do,” said this alert and intelligent lady.  “Oh, I don’t ask for anything unfair!  I only ask for a chance.  I don’t want to be thrown into a corner unread or sold to the second-hand bookseller uncut.  Now, Mr. Moore, think.  You must know lots of newspaper men if you would only think:  why, they’re always coming about theatres.  And they would do anything for you, for you are such a popular favorite; and a word from you would be of such value to a beginner like me.  Now, Mr. Moore, be good-natured, and consider.  But first of all come away and have some lunch, and then we’ll talk it over.”

When they had gone into the dining-room and sat down at table, he said,

“Well, if it comes to that, I certainly know one newspaper man; in fact, I have known him all my life; he is my oldest friend.  But then he is merely the head of the Parliamentary reporting staff of the Morning Mirror—­he’s in the gallery of the House of Commons, you know, every night—­and I’m afraid he couldn’t do much about a book.”

“Couldn’t he do a little, Mr. Moore?” said Lady Adela, insidiously.  “Couldn’t he get it hinted in the papers that ‘Lady Arthur Castletown’ is only a nom de plume?”

“Then you don’t object to your own name being mentioned?” asked this simple young man.

“No, no, not at all,” said she, frankly.  “People are sure to get to know.  There are some sketches of character in the book that I think will make a little stir—­I mean people will be asking questions; and then you know how a pseudonym whets curiosity—­they will certainly find out—­and they will talk all the more then.  That ought to do the book some good.  And then you understand, Mr. Moore,” continued this remarkably naive person, “if your friend happened to know any of the reviewers, and could suggest how some little polite attention might be paid them, there would be nothing wrong in that, would there?  I am told that they are quite gentlemen nowadays—­they go everywhere—­and—­and indeed I should like to make their acquaintance, since I’ve come into the writing fraternity myself.”

Lionel Moore was silent; he was considering how he should approach the fastidious, whimsical, sardonic Maurice Mangan on this extremely difficult subject.

“Let me see,” he said, presently.  “This is Wednesday; my friend Mangan won’t be at the House; I will send a message to his rooms, and ask him to come down to the theatre:  then we can have a consultation about it.  May I take this copy of the book with me, Lady Adela?”

“Certainly, certainly!” said she, with promptitude.  “And if you know of any one to whom I should send a copy, with the author’s name in it—­my own name, I mean—­it would be extremely kind of you to let me know.  It’s so awfully hard for us poor outsiders to get a hearing.  You professional folk are in a very different position—­the public just worship you—­you have it all your own way—­you don’t need to care what the critics say—­but look at me!  I may knock and knock at the door of the Temple of Fame until my knuckles are sore, and who will take any notice—­unless, perhaps, some friendly ear begins to listen?  Do you think Mr. Mangan—­did you say Mangan?—­do you think he would come and dine with us some evening?”