"Oh, yes, certainly. I will ask him," Lionel said; and again he bade her good-night, and took his leave.
But as he was going by the entrance into a smaller gallery, which had been turned into a sort of supper-room (there was a buffet at one end, and everywhere a number of small tables at which groups of friends could sit down, the gentlemen of the party bringing over what was wanted) he happened to glance in, and there, occupying a small table all by himself, was Mr. Octavius Quirk, Lionel at once made his way to him. He found him with a capacious plate of lobster-salad before him, and by the side of that was a large bottle of champagne.
"Going to sit down?" Quirk asked—but with no great cordiality; it was for one person, not for two, that he had secured that bottle.
"No; I dined here," said Lionel, with innocent sarcasm.
"My dear fellow," observed the other, earnestly, "a good dinner is the very best preparation in the world for a good supper."
"I hear Lady Adela has sent you her book; have you looked at it?" Lionel asked.
"Yes, I have," said the other, with his mouth full of lobster-salad. "Capital! I call it capital! Plenty of verve and go—knowledge of society—nobody can do that kind of thing like the people who are actually living in it. Her characters are the people one really meets, you know—they are in the world—they belong to life. Oh, yes, a capital novel! Light, airy, amusing, sparkling—I tell you it will be the book of the season!"
"Oh, I'm very glad to hear that," said Lionel, thoughtfully; and then he went and got his light overcoat and crush-hat, and descended the wide stone-steps, and made his way home to his rooms in Piccadilly.