"
Lionel Moore was silent; he was considering how he should approach the
fastidious, whimsical, sardonic Maurice Mangan on this extremely
difficult subject.
"Let me see," he said, presently. "This is Wednesday; my friend Mangan
won't be at the House; I will send a message to his rooms, and ask him
to come down to the theatre: then we can have a consultation about it.
May I take this copy of the book with me, Lady Adela?"
"Certainly, certainly!" said she, with promptitude. "And if you know of
any one to whom I should send a copy, with the author's name in it--my
own name, I mean--it would be extremely kind of you to let me know. It's
so awfully hard for us poor outsiders to get a hearing. You professional
folk are in a very different position--the public just worship you--you
have it all your own way--you don't need to care what the critics
say--but look at _me_! I may knock and knock at the door of the
Temple of Fame until my knuckles are sore, and who will take any
notice--unless, perhaps, some friendly ear begins to listen? Do you
think Mr. Mangan--did you say Mangan?--do you think he would come and
dine with us some evening?"
The artless ingenuousness of her speech was almost embarrassing.
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