Part 49 (2/2)
Perhaps we have both been in fault. My sisters and I have all been very busy, in our several ways; and then it is awkward you should have only the one Sunday evening free. But there, let _bygones_ be _bygones_, and come and dine with us on Sunday, March 3, at 8.
Forgive the short notice; I've had some trouble in trying to secure one, or two people whom I don't know very well, and I couldn't fix earlier. The fact is, I want it to be an _intellectual_ little dinner; and who could represent music and the drama so fitly as yourself? I want only people with brains at it--perhaps you wouldn't include Rockminster in that category, but I must have him to help me, as my husband is away in Scotland looking after his beasts. Now do be good-natured, dear Mr. Moore, and say you will come.
”And I am going to try your goodness another way. You remember speaking to me about a friend of yours who was connected with newspapers, and who knew some of the London correspondents of the provincial journals? Could you oblige me with his address and the correct spelling of his name? I presume he would not consider it out of the way if I wrote to him as being a friend of yours, and enclosed a card of invitation. I want to have _all_ the _talents_--that is, all of them I can get to come and honor the house of a mere novice and beginner. I did not catch either your friend's surname or his Christian name.
Ever yours sincerely, ADELA CUNYNGHAM.”
He tossed the letter on to the table.
”I wonder,” he said to himself, ”how much of that is meant for me, and how much for Maurice Mangan and newspaper paragraphs.”
But it was high time to get to bed; and that he did without any serious fretting over his losses at the Garden Club. These had amounted, on the whole gamble, to nearly 170; which might have made him pause. For did he not owe responsibilities elsewhere? If he went on at this rate (he ought to have been asking himself) whence was likely to come the money for the plenis.h.i.+ng of a certain small household--an elegant little establishment towards which Miss Kate Burgoyne was no doubt now looking forward with pleased and expectant eyes.
CHAPTER XXI.
IN A DEN OF LIONS, AND THEREAFTER.
When Maurice Mangan, according to appointment, called at Lionel's rooms on the evening of Lady Adela Cunyngham's dinner-party, he was surprised to find his friend seated in front of the fire, wrapped up in a dressing-gown.
”Linn, what's the matter with you?” he exclaimed, looking at him. ”Are you ill? What have you been doing to yourself?”
”Oh, nothing,” was the answer. ”I have been rather worried and out of sorts lately, that is all. And I can't go to that dinner to-night, Maurice. Will you make my excuses for me, like a good fellow? Tell Lady Adela I'm awfully sorry--”
”I'm sure I sha'n't do anything of the sort,” Mangan said, promptly. ”Do you think I am going to leave you here all by yourself? You know why I accepted the invitation: mere curiosity; I wanted to see you among those people--I wanted to describe to Miss Francie how you looked when you were being adored--”
”My dear chap, you would have seen nothing of the sort,” Lionel said.
”To-night there is to be a s.h.i.+ning galaxy of genius, and each particular star will be eager to absorb all the adoration that is going. Authors, actors, painters, musicians--that kind of people; kid-gloved Bohemia.”
”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 ill.u.s.tration 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 pa.s.sed 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.
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