Part 3 (2/2)
”I don't know,” said Harry Thornhill, who had changed quickly, and was now regaling himself with a little of Miss Burgoyne's lemonade, with which the prima-donna was so kind as to keep him supplied. ”Well, now, I shall be on the stage some time; what do you say to looking over Lady Adela's novel?”
”All right.”
There was a tapping at the door; it was the call-boy.
But Lionel Moore did not immediately answer the summons.
”Look here, Maurice; if you should find anything in the book--anything you could say a word in favor of--I wish you'd come round to the Garden Club with me, after the performance, and have a bit of supper. Octavius Quirk is almost sure to be there.”
”What, Quirk? I thought the Garden was given over to dukes and comic actors?”
”There's a sprinkling of everybody in it,” the young baritone said; ”and Quirk likes it because it is an all-night club--he never seems to go to bed at all. Will you do that?”
”Oh, yes,” Maurice Mangan said; and forthwith, as his friend left the dressing-room, he plunged into Lady Adela's novel.
The last act of ”The Squire's Daughter” is longer than its predecessors; so that Mangan had plenty of time to acquire some general knowledge of the character and contents of these three volumes. Indeed, he had more than time for all the brief scrutiny he deemed necessary; when Lionel Moore reappeared, to get finally quit of his theatrical trappings for the night, his friend was standing at the fireplace, looking at a sketch in brown chalk of Miss Burgoyne, which that amiable young lady had herself presented to Harry Thornhill.
”Well, what's the verdict?”
Mangan turned round, rather bewildered; and then he recollected that he had been glancing at the novel.
”Oh, _that_!” he said, regarding the three volumes with no very favorable air, ”Mighty poor stuff, I should say; just about as weak as they make it. But harmless. Some of the conversation--between the women--is natural; trivial, but natural. The plain truth is, my dear Linn, it is a very foolish, stupid book, which should never have been printed at all; but I suppose your fas.h.i.+onable friend could afford to pay for having it printed.”
”But, look here, Maurice,” Lionel said, in considerable surprise, ”I don't see how it can be so very stupid, when Lady Adela herself is one of the brightest, cleverest, shrewdest, most intelligent women you could meet with anywhere--quite unusually so.”
”That may be; but she is not the first clever woman who has made the mistake of imagining that because she is socially popular she must therefore be able to write a book.”
”And what am I to say to Octavius Quirk?”
”What are you to say to the log-rollers? Don't say anything. Get Lady Adela to ask one or two of them to dinner. You'll fetch Quirk that way easily; they say Gargantua was a fool compared to him.”
”I've seen him do pretty well at the Garden, especially about two in the morning,” was the young baritone's comment; and then, as he began to get into his ordinary attire, he said, ”To tell you the truth, Maurice, Lady Adela rather hinted that she would be pleased to make the acquaintance of any--of any literary man--”
”Who could do her book a good turn?”
”No, you needn't put it as rudely as that. She rather feels that, in becoming an auth.o.r.ess, she has allied herself with literary people--and would naturally like to make acquaintances; so, if it came to that, I should consider myself empowered to ask Quirk whether he would accept an invitation to dinner--I mean, at Cunyngham Lodge. It's no use asking you, Maurice?” he added, with a little hesitation.
Maurice Mangan laughed.
”No, no, Linn, my boy; thank you all the same, I say,” he continued, as he took up his hat and stick, seeing that Lionel was about ready to go, ”do you ever hear from Miss Francie Wright, or have you forgotten her among all your fine friends?”
”Oh, I hear from Francie sometimes,” he answered, carelessly, ”or about her, anyway, whenever I get a letter from home. She's very well.
Boarding out pauper sick children is her new fad; and I believe she's very busy and very happy over it. Come along, Maurice; we'll walk up to the Garden, and get something of an appet.i.te for supper.”
When they arrived at the Garden Club (so named from its proximity to Covent Garden) they went forthwith into the s.p.a.cious apartment on the ground floor which served at once as dining-room, newspaper-room, and smoking-room. There was hardly anybody in it. Four young men in evening dress were playing cards at a side-table; at another table a solitary member was writing; but at the long supper-table--which was prettily lit up with crimson-shaded lamps, and the appointments of which seemed very trim and clean and neat--all the chairs were empty, and the only other occupants of the place were the servants, who wore a simple livery of white linen.
”What for supper, Maurice?” the younger of the two friends asked.
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