to be attracted to the glass door communicating with
the hall; and instantly he said, in an undertone:

"Here's a stroke of luck, Maurice; Quirk has just come in. How am I to
sound him? What should I do?"

"Haven't I told you?" said Mangan, curtly. "Get your swell friends to
feed him."

Nevertheless, this short, fat man, who now strode into the room and
nodded briefly to these two acquaintances, speedily showed that on
occasion he knew how to feed himself. He called a waiter, and ordered an
underdone beefsteak with Spanish onions, toasted cheese to follow, and a
large bottle of stout to begin with; then he took the chair at the head
of the table, thus placing himself next to Lionel Moore.

"A very empty den to-night," observed this new-comer, whose heavy face,
watery blue eyes, lank hair plentifully streaked with gray, and
unwholesome complexion would not have produced a too-favorable
impression on any one unacquainted with his literary gifts and graces.

Lionel agreed; and then followed a desultory conversation about nothing
in particular, though Mr. Octavius Quirk was doing his best to say
clever things and show off his boisterous humor. Indeed, it was not
until that gentleman's very substantial supper was being brought in that
Lionel got an opportunity of artfully asking him whether he had heard
anything of Lady Adela Cunyngham's forthcoming novel. He was about to
proceed to explain that "Lady Arthur Castletown" was only a pseudonym,
when he was interrupted by Octavius Quirk bursting into a roar--a
somewhat affected roar--of scornful laughter.

"Well, of all the phenomena of the day, that is the most ludicrous," he
cried, "--the so-called aristocracy thinking that they can produce
anything in the shape of art or literature. The aristocracy--the most
exhausted of all our exhausted social strata--what can be expected from
_it_? Why, we haven't anywhere nowadays either art or literature or
drama that is worthy of the name--not anywhere--it is all a ghastly,
spurious make-believe--a mechanical manufactory of paintings and books
and plays without a spark of life in them--"

[Illustration: "_When they had finished supper, Lionel Moore lit a
cigarette, and his friend a brier-root pipe._"]

Lionel Moore resentfully thought to himself that if Mr. Quirk had been
able to do anything in any one of these directions he might have held
less despairing views; but, of course, he did not interrupt this feebly
tempestuous