“I beg your pardon?  Nero never did anything of the kind,” Mangan observed, with a perfectly diabolical inconsequence, “for violins weren’t invented in those days.”

This was too much for Mr. Quirk; he would not resume argument with such a trifler; nor, indeed, was there any opportunity; for Lord Rockminster now suggested they should go into the drawing-room—­and Ichabod had to leave that decanter of port.

Now, if Maurice Mangan had come to this house to see how Lionel was feted and caressed by “the great”—­in order that he might carry the tale down to Winstead to please the old folk and Miss Francie—­he was doomed to disappointment.  There were very few of “the great” present, to begin with; and those who were paid no particular attention to Lionel Moore.  It was Octavius Quirk who appeared to be the hero of the evening, so far as the attention devoted to him by Lady Adela and her immediate little circle was concerned.  But Maurice himself was not wholly left neglected.  When tea was brought in, his hostess came over to where he was standing.

“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Mangan?—­I want to talk to you about something of very great importance—­importance to me, that is, for you know how vain young authors are.  You have heard of my new book?—­yes, I thought Mr. Moore must have told you.  Well, it’s all ready, except the title-page.  I am not quite settled about the title yet; and you literary gentlemen are so quick and clever with suggestions—­I am sure you will give me good advice.  And I’ve had a number of different titles printed, to see how they look in type; what do you think of this one?  At present it seems to be the favorite; it was Mr. Quirk’s suggestion—­”

She showed him a slip with “North and South” printed on it in large letters.

“I don’t like it at all,” Mangan said, frankly.  “People will think the book has something to do with the American civil war.  However, don’t take my opinion at all.  My connection with literature is almost infinitesimal—­I’m merely a newspaper hack, you know.”

“What you say about the title is quite right? and I am so much obliged to you, Mr. Mangan,” Lady Adela said, with almost pathetic emphasis.  “The American war, of course; I never thought of that!”

“What is Ichabod’s choice?—­I beg your pardon, I mean have you shown the titles to Mr. Egerton?”

“I’m afraid he doesn’t approve of any of them,” said Lady Adela, sadly turning over the slips.

“No, I suppose not; good titles went out with good fiction—­when he ceased to write novels a number of years ago.  May I look at the others?”

She handed him the slips.

“Well, now, there is one that in my poor opinion would be rather effective—­’Lotus and Lily’—­a pretty sound—­”

“Yes—­perhaps,” said Lady Adela, doubtfully, “but then, you see, it has not much connection with the book.  The worst of it is that all the novel is printed—­all but the three title-pages.  Otherwise I might have called my heroine Lily—­”