g 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
illustration 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 passed 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.

"I know hardly anybody here," he said, in an undertone, to Mangan.

"Oh, I know some of them," was the answer, also in an undertone. "Rather
small lions--I think she might have done better with proper guidance.
But perhaps this is only a beginning. Isn't your friend Quirk a picture?
Who is the remarkably handsome girl just beyond?"

"That's Lady Adela's sister, Lady Sybil."

"The composer? I see; that's why she's talking to that portentous old
ass, Schweinkopf, the musical critic. Then there's Miss Gabrielle
Grey--poor thing! she's not very pretty--'I was not good enough for man,
and so am given to'--publishers. By Jove, there's Ichabod--standing by
the door; don't you know him?--Egerton--but they call him Ichabod at the
Garrick. Now, what could our hostess expect to get out of Ichabod? He
has nothing left to him but biting his nails like the senile Pope or
Pagan in the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"

"What does he do?"

"He is a reviewer, _et proeterea nihil_. Some twenty years ago he wrote
two or three novels, but people wouldn't look at them, and so he became
morose about the public taste and modern literature. In fact, there has
b