“A very empty den to-night,” observed this new-comer, whose heavy face, watery blue eyes, lank hair plentifully streaked with gray, and unwholesome complexion would not have produced a too-favorable impression on any one unacquainted with his literary gifts and graces.

Lionel agreed; and then followed a desultory conversation about nothing in particular, though Mr. Octavius Quirk was doing his best to say clever things and show off his boisterous humor.  Indeed, it was not until that gentleman’s very substantial supper was being brought in that Lionel got an opportunity of artfully asking him whether he had heard anything of Lady Adela Cunyngham’s forthcoming novel.  He was about to proceed to explain that “Lady Arthur Castletown” was only a pseudonym, when he was interrupted by Octavius Quirk bursting into a roar—­a somewhat affected roar—­of scornful laughter.

“Well, of all the phenomena of the day, that is the most ludicrous,” he cried, “—­the so-called aristocracy thinking that they can produce anything in the shape of art or literature.  The aristocracy—­the most exhausted of all our exhausted social strata—­what can be expected from it?  Why, we haven’t anywhere nowadays either art or literature or drama that is worthy of the name—­not anywhere—­it is all a ghastly, spurious make-believe—­a mechanical manufactory of paintings and books and plays without a spark of life in them—­”

[Illustration:  “When they had finished supper, Lionel Moore lit a cigarette, and his friend a brier-root pipe.”]

Lionel Moore resentfully thought to himself that if Mr. Quirk had been able to do anything in any one of these directions he might have held less despairing views; but, of course, he did not interrupt this feebly tempestuous monologue.

“—­We are all played out, that is the fact—­the soil is exhausted—­we want a great national upheaval—­a new condition of things—­a social revolution, in short.  And we’re going to get it” he continued, in a sort of triumphant way; “there’s no mistake about that; the social revolution is in the air, it is under our feet, it is pressing in upon us from every side; and yet at the very moment that the aristocracy have got notice to quit their deer-forests and their salmon-rivers and grouse-moors, they so far mistake the signs of the times that they think they should be devoting themselves to art and going on the stage!  Was there ever such incomprehensible madness?”

“I hope they won’t sweep away deer-forests and grouse-moors just all at once,” the young baritone said, modestly, “for I am asked to go to the Highlands at the beginning of next August.”