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.
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