“Yes, it’s quite ready, you know,” she continued, in her blithe, discursive, happy-go-lucky fashion; “all quite ready; but she doesn’t want it to go before the public until there has been a little talk about it, don’t you understand?  She wants some of the society papers to mention it; but she isn’t quite sure how to get that done, and nobody seems able to help her—­it’s really distressing.  Do you see that hideous creature down there at the corner?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a writer,” observed this artless maiden, in mysterious tones.

“You don’t say so!”

“Yes, he is—­writes in all kinds of places.  Why, now I think of it, Lady Adela said he was a friend of yours!  I’m sure she did.  So you pretend not to know him—­is that on account of his complexion?  Have you any more such beauties among your acquaintances, Mr. Moore?  I thought he might be taking me in to dinner; and that’s why I was so glad you brought me to look at the cards.  Very rude, wasn’t it? but you had permission, hadn’t you?  And there’s another one coming to-night.”

“Another what?”

“A writing man.  But this other one is an American.  Of course Lady Adela wants to have the curiosity of the American public excited just as well as the English.  Have you heard Lady Sybil’s marching-song yet?”

“No.”

“Well, I think it is charming—­really charming.  Rockminster was dining with the officers of the Coldstream Guards the other evening, and he promised to send a copy to the bandmaster as soon as it is published.  But Sybil wants more than that, of course; she wants to see whether the commander-in-chief wouldn’t recommend it, so that it could be taken up by all the regiments.  Wouldn’t that be splendid?—­to think that Sybil should provide a marching-song for the whole British army!”

“Yes, indeed,” said he, with great politeness.  “And why shouldn’t the commander-in-chief recommend it?  A marching-song is as important as a new button.  But I must get a look at the music, if we are all to join in the chorus.”

The dinner was not long-protracted, for there was to be a concert during the evening; and, indeed, people began to arrive early—­strolling through the galleries, looking at the pictures, or talking together in small groups.  It was during this promiscuous assembling that Octavius Quirk got hold of Lionel, and, with savage disgust, drew his attention to a hostler-looking person who had just come into the room.

“Do you see that ill-conditioned brute; what’s he doing here?”

Lionel glanced in the direction indicated.

“I don’t know who he is.”

“Don’t you know Quincey Hooper? the correspondent of the Philadelphia Roll-Call—­a cur who toadies every Englishman he meets, and at the same time sneers at everything English in his wretched Philadelphia rag.”

Then Lionel instantly bethought him of Miss Lestrange’s hint; was this the correspondent who was to arouse the interest of the great American Continent in Lady Adela’s forthcoming novel, even as Octavius Quirk was expected to write about it in England?  But surely, with the wide Atlantic lying between their respective spheres of operation, there was no need for rivalry?  Why did Mr. Quirk still glare in the direction of the new-comer with ill-disguised, or rather with wholly undisguised, disdain?