Amid roars of laughter Dicky’s voice was heard—­

“She calls him Love’s martyr; he nearly died of bronchitis, and became a priest.  Kitty swears she’ll go to confession to him one of these days.”

“By Jove, if she does I’ll publish it in the Pilgrim.”

“Too late this week,” Mike said to Frank.

“We got to town by half past six, went round to the Cri. to have a sherry-and-bitters, dined at the Royal, went on to the Pav., and on with all the girls in hansoms, four in each, to Snowdown’s.”

“See me dance the polka, dear boy,” cried the languid lord, awaking suddenly from his indolence, and as he pranced across the room most of his drink went over Drake’s neck; and amid oaths and laughter Escott besought of the revellers to retire.

“We are still four columns short, we must get on.”  And for an hour and a half the scratching of the pens was only interrupted by the striking of a match and an occasional damn.  At six they adjourned to the office.  They walked along the Strand swinging their sticks, full of consciousness of a day’s work done.  Drake and Platt, who had avenged some private wrongs in their paragraphs, were disturbed by the fear of libel; Harding gnawed the end of his moustache, and reconsidered his attack on a contemporary writer, pointing his gibes afresh.

They trooped up-stairs, the door was thrown open.  It was a small office, and at the end of the partitioned space a clerk sat in front of a ledger on a high stool, his face against the window.  Lounging on the counter, turning over the leaves of back numbers, they discussed the advertisements.  They stood up when Lady Helen entered. [Footnote:  See A Modern Lover.] She had come to speak to Frank about a poem, and she only paused in her rapid visit to shake hands with Harding, and she asked Mike if his poems would be published that season.

The contributors to the Pilgrim dined together on Wednesday, and spent four shillings a head in an old English tavern, where unlimited joint and vegetables could be obtained for half-a-crown.  The old-fashioned boxes into which the guests edged themselves had not been removed, and about the mahogany bar, placed in the passage in front of the proprietress’s parlour, two dingy barmaids served actors from the adjoining theatre with whisky-and-water.  The contributors to the Pilgrim had selected a box, and were clamouring for food.  Smacking his lips, the head-waiter, an antiquity who cashed cheques and told stories about Mr. Dickens and Mr. Thackeray, stopped in front of this table.

“Roast beef, very nice—­a nice cut, sir; saddle of mutton just up.”

All decided for saddle of mutton.

“Saddle of mutton, number three.”

Greasy and white the carver came, and as if the meat were a delight the carver sliced it out.  Some one remarked this.

“That is nothing,” said Thompson; “you should hear Hopkins grunting as he cuts the venison on Tuesdays and Fridays, and how he sucks his lips as he ladles out the gravy.  We only enjoy a slice or two, whereas his pleasure ends only with the haunch.”