Lord Rockminster called that afternoon and was shown up-stairs.
"I am going down to Scotland to-night," said he to Maurice, "and I have just got a telegram from Miss Cunyngham—you may have heard of her from Mr. Moore?"
"Oh, yes," Mangan said.
"She wishes me to bring her the latest news."
Well, he was told what there was to tell—which was not much, amid all this dire uncertainty. He looked perplexed.
"I should like to have taken Miss Cunyngham some more reassuring message," he said, thoughtfully. "I suppose there is nothing either she or I could do?" And then he drew Maurice aside and spoke in an undertone. "Except perhaps this. I have heard that Moore has been playing a little high of late—and has burned his fingers. I hope you won't let his mind be harassed by money matters. If a temporary loan will serve, and for a considerable amount if necessary, I will rely on your writing to me; may I?"
"It is exceedingly kind of you," Maurice said—but made no further promise.
No, Lionel had not been forgotten by all his fashionable friends. That same afternoon a package arrived, which, according to custom, Maurice opened, lest some acknowledgment should be necessary. It proved to be Lady Adela Cunyngham's new novel—the three volumes prettily bound in white parchment.
"Is the woman mad with vanity," said Francie, in hot indignation, "to send him her trash at such a time as this?"
Maurice laughed; it was not often that the gentle Francie was so vehement.