A Novel

by

GEORGE MOORE

Author of
“A Mummer’s Wife,” “Confessions of a Young Man,” Etc.

1889

To
my brother Augustus,
in memory of many years of
mutual aspiration and labour

CHAPTER I

Oaths, vociferations, and the slamming of cab-doors.  The darkness was decorated by the pink of a silk skirt, the crimson of an opera-cloak vivid in the light of a carriage-lamp, with women’s faces, necks, and hair.  The women sprang gaily from hansoms and pushed through the swing-doors.  It was Lubini’s famous restaurant.  Within the din was deafening.

  “What cheer, ’Ria! 
   ’Ria’s on the job,”

roared thirty throats, all faultlessly clothed in the purest linen.  They stood round a small bar, and two women and a boy endeavoured to execute their constant orders for brandies-and-sodas.  They were shoulder to shoulder, and had to hold their liquor almost in each other’s faces.  A man whose hat had been broken addressed reproaches to a friend, who cursed him for interrupting his howling.

Issued from this saloon a long narrow gallery set with a single line of tables, now all occupied by reproaches to a friend, who cursed him for interrupting his howling.

Issued from this saloon a long narrow gallery set with a single line of tables, now all occupied by supping courtesans and their men.  An odour of savouries, burnt cheese and vinegar met the nostrils, also the sharp smell of a patchouli-scented handkerchief drawn quickly from a bodice; and a young man protested energetically against a wild duck which had been kept a few days over its time.  Lubini, or Lubi, as he was called by his pals, signed to the waiter, and deciding the case in favour of the young man, he pulled a handful of silver out of his pocket and offered to toss three lords, with whom he was conversing, for drinks all round.

“Feeling awfully bad, dear boy; haven’t been what I could call sober since Monday.  Would you mind holding my liquor for me?  I must go and speak to that chappie.”

Since John Norton had come to live in London, his idea had been to put his theory of life, which he had defined in his aphorism, “Let the world be my monastery,” into active practice.  He did not therefore refuse to accompany Mike Fletcher to restaurants and music-halls, and was satisfied so long as he was allowed to disassociate and isolate himself from the various women who clustered about Mike.  But this evening he viewed the courtesans with more than the usual liberalism of mind, had even laughed loudly when one fainted and was upheld by anxious friends, the most zealous and the most intimate of whom bathed her white tragic face and listened in