“But don’t you think,” he ventured to say, “that that would look rather mechanical—­rather stagey, in fact?  I know nothing about writing; but I should think you would want to deal mostly with the expression of the woman’s face—­”

“I want to have it all!” the anxious authoress exclaimed.  “I want to have attitudes—­gestures—­everything; to make the picture vivid.  I must have the actual tone of her shriek—­”

“Which Mr. Moore heard as he came in,” Miss Georgie said, as a kind of challenge.

“Yes, I thought I heard a slight cry,” he admitted, gravely.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Moore,” said Lady Adela, with her most charming smile, as she began to fold up her notes.  “The little piece of realism you have suggested will come in admirably; and I think I’ve done enough for to-day—­thanks to Georgie here, who has just been an angel of patience.”

Tea followed, and some idle talk, during which Lionel learned that Lady Adela and her sisters were going down to Brighton the following day.  He incidentally mentioned Octavius Quirk’s name; whereupon his hostess, who was a sharp and a shrewd woman when she was not dabbling in literature, instantly and graciously explained to him that she had been corresponding a good deal with Octavius Quirk of late, over her new work.  She informed him, further, that Octavius Quirk was coming to dine there that evening—­what a pity it was that Mr. Moore was engaged every evening at the theatre!  When Lionel left, she had persuaded him that he was just as much a favorite as ever; he could very well understand that she had cultivated Octavius Quirk’s acquaintance only in his capacity as a kind of pseudo-literary person.

Day after day of this lonely week passed; Lionel, all unknown to himself, was marching onward to his fate.  On the Saturday there were two performances of “The Squire’s Daughter;” at night he felt very tired—­which was unusual with him; that, or some other palpable excuse, was sufficient to take him down to Victoria station on the Sunday morning.  He had forgotten, or put aside, all Maurice Mangan’s cool-blooded presentation of his case; undefined longings were in his brain; the future was to be quite different from the past—­and somehow Honnor Cunyngham was the central figure in these mirage-like visions.  He had formed no definite plans; he had prepared no persuasive appeal; the only and immediate thing he knew was that he wished to be in the same place with her, breathing the same air with her, with the chance of catching a distant glimpse of her, even if he were himself to remain unseen.  Would she be out walking along the sea-front after church?  Surely so, when she had Lady Adela and her sisters as her guests.  And if not, he would call in the afternoon; how well he remembered the rather dusky drawing-room and its curious scent of sweet-briar or some similar perfume.  A hushed half-hour there would be something to be treasured up and conned over again and again in subsequent recollection.  Would she be sitting near the window, half-shadowed by the curtains?  Or standing in front of the fire, perhaps, absently gazing into it, her tall and elegant figure outlined by the crimson flames?