“Come, Linn; rouse yourself, man,” his friend protested.  “You’ll do no good moping here by the fire.  There’s still time for you to dress; I came early in case you might want to walk up to Campden Hill.  And you shouldn’t disappoint your friends, if this is to be so great an occasion.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Lionel said, and he rose wearily, “though I would twenty times rather go to bed.  You can find a book for yourself, Maurice; I sha’n’t keep you many minutes,” and with that he disappeared into his dressing-room.

A four-wheeler carried them up to Campden Hill; a welcome glow of light shone forth on the carriage-drive and the dark bushes.  As they entered and crossed the wide hall, they were preceded by a young lady whose name was at the same moment announced at the door of the drawing-room—­“Miss Gabrielle Grey.”

“Oh, really,” said Mangan to his companion, as they were leaving their coats and hats.  “I always thought ‘Gabrielle Grey’ was the pseudonym of an elderly clergyman’s widow, or somebody of that kind.”

“But who is Miss Gabriel Grey?”

“You mean to say you have never even heard of her?  Oh, she writes novels—­very popular, too, and very deservedly so, for that kind of thing—­excellent in tone, highly moral, and stuffed full of High-Church sentiment; and I can tell you this, Linn, my boy, that for a lady novelist to have plenty of High-Church sentiment at her command is about equivalent to holding four of a kind at poker—­and that’s an illustration you’ll understand.  Now come and introduce me to my hostess, and tell me who all the people are.”

Lady Adela received both Lionel and his friend in the most kindly manner.

“What a charming photograph that is of you in evening dress,” she said to Lionel.  “Really, I’ve had to lock away my copy of it; girls are such thieves nowadays; they think nothing of picking up what pleases them and popping it in their pockets.”  And therewith Lady Adela turned to Mr. Quirk, with whom she had been talking; and the new-comers passed on, and found themselves in a corner from whence they could survey the room.

The first glance revealed to Lionel that, if all the talents were there, the “quality” was conspicuously absent.

“I know hardly anybody here,” he said, in an undertone, to Mangan.

“Oh, I know some of them,” was the answer, also in an undertone.  “Rather small lions—­I think she might have done better with proper guidance.  But perhaps this is only a beginning.  Isn’t your friend Quirk a picture?  Who is the remarkably handsome girl just beyond?”

“That’s Lady Adela’s sister, Lady Sybil.”

“The composer?  I see; that’s why she’s talking to that portentous old ass, Schweinkopf, the musical critic.  Then there’s Miss Gabrielle Grey—­poor thing! she’s not very pretty—­’I was not good enough for man, and so am given to’—­publishers.  By Jove, there’s Ichabod—­standing by the door; don’t you know him?—­Egerton—­but they call him Ichabod at the Garrick.  Now, what could our hostess expect to get out of Ichabod?  He has nothing left to him but biting his nails like the senile Pope or Pagan in the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’”