mposed on a conquered people. We must be
as free as the United States of America--"

"America!" Mangan said; and he was rude enough to laugh. "The State of
New York has more stringent game-laws than any European country that I
know of; and why not? They wanted to preserve certain wild animals, for
the general good; and they took the only possible way."

Quirk was disconcerted only for a moment; presently he had resumed, in
his reckless, _mouton-enrage_ fashion,

"That may be; but the Democracy of Great Britain has pronounced against
game; and game must go; there is no disputing the fact. Hunting in any
civilized community is a relic of barbarism; it is worse in this
country--it is an infringement of the natural rights of the tiller of
the soil. What is the use of talking about it?--the whole thing is
doomed; if you're going to Scotland this autumn, Mr. Moore, if you are
to be shown all those exclusive pastimes of the rich and privileged
classes, well, I'd advise you to keep your eyes open, and write as clear
an account of what you see as you can; and, by Jove, twenty years hence
your book will be read with amazement by the new generation!"

Here the pot of foaming stout claimed his attention; he buried his head
in it; and thereafter, sitting back in his chair, sighed forth his
satisfaction. The time was come for a large cigar.

And how, in the face of this fierce denunciation of the wealthy classes
and all their ways, could Lionel Moore put in a word for Lady Adela's
poor little literary infant? It would be shrivelled into nothing by a
blast of this simulated simoom. It would be trodden under foot by the
log-roller's elephantine jocosity. In a sort of despair he turned to
Maurice Mangan, and would have entered into conversation with him but
that Mangan now rose and said he must be going, nor could he be
prevailed on to stay. Lionel accompanied him into the hall.

"That Jabberwock makes me sick; he's such an ugly devil," Mangan said,
as he put on his hat; and surely that was strange language coming from
a grave philosopher who was about to publish a volume on the
"Fundamental Fallacies of M. Comte."

"But what am I to do, Maurice?" Lionel said, as his friend was leaving.
"It's no use asking for his intervention at present; he's simply running
amuck."

"If your friend--Lady What's-her-name--is as clever as you say, she'll
just twist that fellow round her finger," the other observed, briefly.
"Good-night, Linn."