"This is luck," Lionel said to himself. "Maurice's Jabberwock will begin
with his blatherskite nonsense--it will be something to pass the time."
But on the contrary, as it turned out, the short, fat man with the
unwholesome complexion was not at this moment in the humor for frothy
and windy invective about nothing; perhaps the abundant supper had
mollified him; he was quite suave.
"Ah, Moore," said he, "haven't seen you since you came back from
Scotland. It was awfully kind of Lady Adela to send me a haunch of
venison."
"It would serve you for one meal, I suppose," Lionel thought; he did not
say so.
"I dine with them to-morrow night," continued Mr. Quirk, complacently.
"Oh, indeed," said Lionel? Lady Adela seemed rather in a hurry,
immediately on her return to town, to secure her tame critic.
"Very good dinners they give you up there at Campden Hill,"
Mr. Quirk resumed, as he took out a big cigar from his case.
"Excellent--excellent--and the people very well chosen, too, if it
weren't for that loathsome brute, Quincey Hooper. Why do they tolerate a
fellow like that--the meanest lick-spittle and boot-blacker to any
Englishman who has got a handle to his name, while all the time he is
writing in his wretched Philadelphia rag every girding thing he can
think of against England.
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