asily; 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 authoress, 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 appetite for supper."

When they arrived at the Garden Club (so named from its proximity to
Covent Garden) they went forthwith into the spacious 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.

"Anything--with salad," Mangan answered; he was examining a series of
old engravings that hung around the walls.

"On a warm night like this what do you say to cold lamb, salad, and some
hock and iced soda-water?"

"All right."

Supper was speedily forthcoming, and, as they took their places, Mangan