"I know hardly anybody here," he said, in an undertone, to Mangan.
"Oh, I know some of them," was the answer, also in an undertone. "Rather
small lions--I think she might have done better with proper guidance.
But perhaps this is only a beginning. Isn't your friend Quirk a picture?
Who is the remarkably handsome girl just beyond?"
"That's Lady Adela's sister, Lady Sybil."
"The composer? I see; that's why she's talking to that portentous old
ass, Schweinkopf, the musical critic. Then there's Miss Gabrielle
Grey--poor thing! she's not very pretty--'I was not good enough for man,
and so am given to'--publishers. By Jove, there's Ichabod--standing by
the door; don't you know him?--Egerton--but they call him Ichabod at the
Garrick. Now, what could our hostess expect to get out of Ichabod? He
has nothing left to him but biting his nails like the senile Pope or
Pagan in the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"
"What does he do?"
"He is a reviewer, _et proeterea nihil_. Some twenty years ago he wrote
two or three novels, but people wouldn't look at them, and so he became
morose about the public taste and modern literature. In fact, there has
been no English literature--for twenty years; this is his wail and moan
whenever an editor allows him to lift up his voice.
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