The artless ingenuousness of her speech was almost embarrassing.

“He is a very busy man,” he said, doubtfully, “very busy.  He has his gallery work to do, of course; and then I believe he is engaged on some important philosophical treatise—­he has been at it for years, indeed—­”

“Oh, he writes books too?” Lady Adela cried.  “Then certainly you must bring him to dinner.  Shall I write a note now, Mr. Moore—­a Sunday evening, of course, so that we may secure you as well—­”

“I think I would wait a little, Lady Adela,” he said, “until I see how the land lies.  He’s a most curious fellow, Mangan:  difficult to please and capricious.  I fancy he is rather disappointed with himself; he ought to have done something great, for he knows everything—­at least he knows what is fine in everything, in painting, in poetry, in music; and yet, with all his sympathy, he seems to be forever grumbling—­and mostly at himself.  He is a difficult fellow to deal with—­”

“I suppose he eats his dinner like anybody else,” said Lady Adela, somewhat sharply:  she was not used to having her invitations scorned.

“Yes, but I think he would prefer to eat it in a village ale-house,” Lionel said, with a smile, “where he could make ’the violet of a legend blow, among the chops and steaks.’  However, I will take him your book, Lady Adela; and I have no doubt he will be able to give you some good advice.”

It was late that evening when, in obedience to the summons of a sixpenny telegram, Maurice Mangan called at the stage-door of the New Theatre and was passed in.  Lionel Moore was on the stage, as any one could tell, for the resonant baritone voice was ringing clear above the multitudinous music of the orchestra; but Mangan, not wishing to be in the way, did not linger in the wings—­he made straight for his friend’s room, which he knew.  And in the dusk of the long corridor he was fortunate enough to behold a beautiful apparition, in the person of a young French officer in the gayest of uniforms, who, apparently to maintain the character he bore in the piece (it was that of a young prisoner of war liberated on parole, who played sad havoc with the hearts of the village maidens by reason of his fascinating ways and pretty broken English), had just facetiously chucked two of the women dressers under the chin; and these damsels were simpering at this mark of condescension, and evidently much impressed by the swagger and braggadocio of the miniature warrior.  However, Mlle. Girond (the boy-officer in question) no sooner caught sight of the new-comer than she instantly and demurely altered her demeanor; and as she passed him in the corridor she favored him with a grave and courteous little bow, for she had met him more than once in Miss Burgoyne’s sitting-room.  Mangan returned the salutation most respectfully; and then he went on and entered the apartment in which Lionel Moore dressed.