"
"Ah, you're unjust, Maurice; you don't know them. I dare say you judged
that novel by some high literary standard that it doesn't pretend to
reach. I am sure of this, that if it's half as clever as Lady Adela
Cunyngham herself, it will do very well."
"It will do very well for the kind of people who will read it," said the
other, indifferently.
This was a free-and-easy place; when they had finished supper, Lionel
Moore lit a cigarette, and his friend a briar-root pipe, without moving
from the table; and Mangan's prayer was still that his companion should
fix Sunday week for a visit to the little Surrey village where they had
been boys together, and where Lionel's father and mother (to say nothing
of a certain Miss Francie Wright, whose name cropped up more than once
in Mangan's talk) were still living. But during this entreaty Lionel's
attention happened to be attracted to the glass door communicating with
the hall; and instantly he said, in an undertone:
"Here's a stroke of luck, Maurice; Quirk has just come in. How am I to
sound him? What should I do?"
"Haven't I told you?" said Mangan, curtly. "Get your swell friends to
feed him.
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