Cleo The Magnificent; Or, The Muse of the Real. Louis Zangwill

      "Then you think I really am worth talking to—a little?" asked Margaret.

      He set down the light on the mantelshelf and somehow found himself holding her hand. Neither appeared to be aware of the fact.

      "My dear Margaret, I was hoping you had accepted my fit of melancholy——"

      "You stupid Morgan! I only wanted you to tell me how clever I am. I am so greedy for praise—because I haven't any of those melancholy fits, and my vanity must be gratified somehow. At least, when I do have the mopes I always know the reason, and it has never been anything connected with my genius."

      "What! you don't mean to say that you ever——"

      "Sometimes," she interrupted. "A good deal of late, only, unlike you, I never let anybody guess."

      "I thought you were a perfectly happy girl in the first flood of enthusiasm for your work and with all those nice men to admire you."

      Her fingers tightened perceptibly on his.

      "If you continue to plague me about those nice men, Morgan, you shall not have a single dance next time, but you'll just see those nice men get them all."

      "I am sure you don't look a bit as if you could devise such cruel torture."

      "Would it be a very terrible punishment?"

      "I would do any penance to avoid it."

      "You'd look too comic in sackcloth and ashes. Come to my studio-warming instead."

      "A charming penance, Margaret."

      "Perhaps we ought to go down now," she suggested, irrelevantly.

      He took up the light again.

      "Have you fixed the date for the warming?"

      "Impossible yet. But I'll send you——"

      "Not cards—now you've moved up into Bohemia!"

      "Oh, no. A little pink note. I hope that is the correct thing in Bohemia, or, at least, that it isn't incorrect."

      "In Bohemia there are no correct things."

      "What an awful place it must be. Whatever one does is wrong."

      "On the contrary, whatever one does is right."

      "Then all things are correct in Bohemia!"

      "How can that be, Margaret? There are things—no, there aren't, and—and—I'm afraid I've got myself into an awful tangle. You've quite turned my head with your logic."

      He began to move across the room towards the door.

      "If it's only my logic that turns your head, then I take everything back. I won't speak to you ever again."

      "My goodness!" began Morgan, losing his wits, forgetting he held the candle and letting it fall. The light vanished like a spectre. "I beg your pardon," he ejaculated, in some astonishment, whilst Margaret's laugh rang out.

      Just as he stooped down to recover the candle, they became aware of footsteps, and in a moment the handle of the outer door was being turned.

      "All dark," said Diana's voice. "Then I suppose they're not here—or, at least, I shouldn't like to think they were. I fancy Marjy put a candle and matches on the table."

      They heard the sound of her fumbling, and, as if by common understanding, they remained still as mice. Then Diana declared the things weren't there, and Archibald suggested they might inspect the place in the dark.

      "I certainly shall do nothing so improper," returned Diana severely. "There must be match-light at least. I draw the line at that. Produce your pretty, golden box."

      Diana opened the green baize door, and Archibald struck a light.

      "Ho, ho!" he said, playfully.

      "We are evidently de trop" said Diana. "Let us retire."

      "Be careful," called Margaret. "You'll burn your fingers."

      But the mischief was already done. Archibald uttered a "d—n," threw down the end of the match and stamped on it wrathfully.

      Morgan picked up the fallen candle, lighted it and replaced it on the mantelshelf. The wax was broken in the middle, and the top part leaned disconsolately to one side.

      "We are sorry to have unwittingly interfered with your little arrangement," said Margaret, curtseying in mock apology. "But you are quite welcome to make free of my humble abode, so we shall leave you in possession. Come, Morgan." And the two swept out of the room.

      "Come and lunch with me to-morrow at the hotel," said Archibald to Morgan, as he got into a hansom an hour later. "We'll spend the afternoon together. There are some points about my book I want to settle. 'Plain Thoughts of a Practical Thinker!' Splendid title! Morgan, you're indeed a genius. 'An attempt to investigate some questions of primary importance that are usually shelved.' That just hits it off—the very book I intended to write!"

CHAPTER VII.

       Table of Contents

      When his father had driven off, Morgan, seized with a restlessness, began to stroll slowly homeward. He had at least wrung some happiness from the evening. His love for Margaret had been strong enough to absorb him, save when at moments his sense of his general position had obtruded. But now he surrendered himself once more to the mood which the events of the day had interrupted.

      He was again conscious of the tragedy of his past life with its culminating episode of the evening before, and of the infinite possibility that life held of mystery and fantasy—a mystery and fantasy into which he was going to plunge. The hours he had just enjoyed, he told himself, must not be allowed to influence him. They must be sternly isolated from the future; the disattachment of the new life before him from the wreckage of the old must be complete.

      Wreckage! He used the word deliberately, though he was aware there were elements in the position that would have made his estimate of it seem grotesque to many ears.

      He was the son of a father of unlimited wealth, who idolised him now. In addition to very many acquaintanceships, both in London and the country, that were pleasant even if they did not occupy the centre of his consciousness, he had the friendship of Lady Thiselton and the more intimate though less fantastic relation with the Medhursts. And, moreover, he was in love with a beautiful and talented girl, who, he modestly felt, had a great esteem for him—though any other eyes than those of the diffident lover would have seen at a glance that she loved him in return.

      How could all these things fail to make a man happy, especially when the man was only twenty-eight years old?

      But Morgan's happiness was dependent on his attitude towards things, not on the things themselves. And just now he but perceived all these elements that might have made another life enviable as so many ironies. His ambition—his self-realisation and its recognition by his fellows—had been all in all to him; its abandonment had been the culmination of anguish infinite. The best years of his youth had been lost in vain effort, and some of the bitterness of early opposition that success might have purged still lingered in his spirit. His nature was proud and sensitive and his very failure made it impossible for him to ask for more money, even though he knew it would be forthcoming without stint. What wonder now if he perceived his life as a tragedy!

      Common Sense would have advised him to put on one side all emotions and moods that arose out of and summed up the past, all the subtle feelings that possessed and mastered him; would have urged him to begin a new epoch, seek the paternal aid, retain his friendships, and persevere in his love; would have given him assurance of a perfectly satisfactory outlook if he would but readjust his mental focus.

      But Common Sense is obtuse and safe. Morgan was a mass of fine sensibility; his temperament was full