“That may be; but she is not the first clever woman who has made the mistake of imagining that because she is socially popular she must therefore be able to write a book.”

“And what am I to say to Octavius Quirk?”

“What are you to say to the log-rollers?  Don’t say anything.  Get Lady Adela to ask one or two of them to dinner.  You’ll fetch Quirk that way easily; they say Gargantua was a fool compared to him.”

“I’ve seen him do pretty well at the Garden, especially about two in the morning,” was the young baritone’s comment; and then, as he began to get into his ordinary attire, he said, “To tell you the truth, Maurice, Lady Adela rather hinted that she would be pleased to make the acquaintance of any—­of any literary man—­”

“Who could do her book a good turn?”

“No, you needn’t put it as rudely as that.  She rather feels that, in becoming an authoress, she has allied herself with literary people—­and would naturally like to make acquaintances; so, if it came to that, I should consider myself empowered to ask Quirk whether he would accept an invitation to dinner—­I mean, at Cunyngham Lodge.  It’s no use asking you, Maurice?” he added, with a little hesitation.

Maurice Mangan laughed.

“No, no, Linn, my boy; thank you all the same, I say,” he continued, as he took up his hat and stick, seeing that Lionel was about ready to go, “do you ever hear from Miss Francie Wright, or have you forgotten her among all your fine friends?”

“Oh, I hear from Francie sometimes,” he answered, carelessly, “or about her, anyway, whenever I get a letter from home.  She’s very well.  Boarding out pauper sick children is her new fad; and I believe she’s very busy and very happy over it.  Come along, Maurice; we’ll walk up to the Garden, and get something of an appetite for supper.”

When they arrived at the Garden Club (so named from its proximity to Covent Garden) they went forthwith into the spacious apartment on the ground floor which served at once as dining-room, newspaper-room, and smoking-room.  There was hardly anybody in it.  Four young men in evening dress were playing cards at a side-table; at another table a solitary member was writing; but at the long supper-table—­which was prettily lit up with crimson-shaded lamps, and the appointments of which seemed very trim and clean and neat—­all the chairs were empty, and the only other occupants of the place were the servants, who wore a simple livery of white linen.

“What for supper, Maurice?” the younger of the two friends asked.

“Anything—­with salad,” Mangan answered; he was examining a series of old engravings that hung around the walls.

“On a warm night like this what do you say to cold lamb, salad, and some hock and iced soda-water?”

“All right.”

Supper was speedily forthcoming, and, as they took their places, Mangan said,

“You don’t often go down to see the old people, Linn?”