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.

"He is a very busy man," he said, doubtfully, "very busy. He has his
gallery work to do, of course; and then I believe he is engaged on some
important philosophical treatise--he has been at it for years, indeed--"

"Oh, he writes books too?" Lady Adela cried. "Then certainly you must
bring him to dinner. Shall I write a note now, Mr. Moore--a Sunday
evening, of course, so that we may secure you as well--"

"I think I would wait a little, Lady Adela," he said, "until I see how
the land lies. He's a most curious fellow, Mangan: difficult to please
and capricious. I fancy he is rather disappointed with himself; he ought
to have done something great, for he knows everything--at least he knows
what is fine in everything, in painting, in poetry, in music; and yet,
with all his sympathy, he seems to be forever grumbling--and mostly at
himself. He is a difficult fellow to deal with--"

"I suppose he eats his dinner like anybody else," said Lady Adela,
somewhat sharply: she was not used to having her invitations scorned.

"Yes, but I think he would prefer to eat it in a village ale-house,"
Lionel said, with a smile, "where he could make 'the violet of a legend
blow, among the chops and steaks.' However, I will take him your book,