“What does he do?”

“He is a reviewer, et proeterea nihil.  Some twenty years ago he wrote two or three novels, but people wouldn’t look at them, and so he became morose about the public taste and modern literature.  In fact, there has been no English literature—­for twenty years; this is his wail and moan whenever an editor allows him to lift up his voice.  It was feeble on the part of your friend to ask Ichabod; she won’t get anything out of him.  I can see a reason for most of the others—­those whom I know; but Ichabod is hopeless.”

Mangan suddenly ceased these careless comments; his attention was arrested by the entrance of a tall young lady who came in very quietly—­without being announced even.

“I say, who’s that?” he exclaimed, under his breath.

And Lionel had been startled too; for he had convinced himself ere he came that Honnor Cunyngham was certain to be in Scotland.  But there she was, as distinguished-looking, as self-possessed as ever; her glance direct and simple and calm, though she seemed to hesitate for a moment as if seeking for some one whom she might know in the crowd.  From the fact of her not having been announced, Lionel guessed that she was staying in the house; perhaps, indeed, she had been in the drawing-room before.  He hardly knew what to do.  He forgot to answer his friend’s question.  If dinner were to be happily announced now, would it not save her from some embarrassment if he and she could go in their separate ways without meeting? and thereafter he could leave without returning to the drawing-room.  Yet, if she were staying in the house, she must have known that he was coming?

All this swift consideration was the work of a single second; the next second Miss Honnor’s eyes had fallen upon the young man; and immediately and in the most natural way in the world she came across the room to him.  It is true that there was a slight touch of color visible on the gracious forehead when she offered him her hand; but there was no other sign of self-consciousness; and she said, quite quietly and simply,

“It is some time since we have met, Mr. Moore; but, of course, I notice your name in the papers frequently.”

“I hardly expected to see you here to-night,” he said, in reply.  “I thought you would be off to Scotland for the salmon-fishing.”

“I go to-morrow night,” she made answer.

At the same moment Lord Rockminster came up, holding a bit of folded paper furtively in his hand; the faithful brother looked perplexed, for he had to remember the names of these various strangers; but here at least were two whom he did know.

“Mr. Moore, will you take Miss Cunyngham in to dinner?” he murmured, as he went by; so that Lionel found there would have been no escape for him in any case.  But now that the first little awkwardness of their meeting was over, there was nothing else.  Miss Cunyngham spoke to him quite pleasantly and naturally—­though she did not meet his eyes much.  Meantime dinner was announced, and Lord Rockminster led the way with a trim little elderly lady whom Lionel afterwards discovered to be (for she told him as much) the London correspondent of a famous Parisian journal devoted to fashions and the beau monde.