Part 11 (1/2)

”Perhaps that's perfectly right. The green streaks--like the boiled carrot--may be just a little surprise by way of extra. Neither is included in the description of the dish.”

”Morgan, I really don't think I can eat this,” she said faintly.

”Backsliding already?”

”Not at all. You forget I'm a bundle of 'isms,' and in practice one can only be true to one at a time. When that one begins to make me feel uncomfortable, I become true to another. Thus I am always true to myself. All the mutually contradictory 'isms' unite in a higher synthesis. Am I not the most lovely higher synthesis you ever saw?”

”All of which Hegelian dialectics mean that I'd better tell them to take this stuff away.”

”If you think they won't maltreat us. They look terribly fierce; and they may have any number of myrmidons within call. That sort of people, you know, doesn't like to have its cooking criticised.”

”So long as we pay, we'll not find them too sensitive.”

The matter was soon arranged, they adopting the man's suggestion of a ”nice, juicy steak.” And when it arrived they felt compelled to p.r.o.nounce it excellent.

”I shouldn't be surprised if those green streaks were the proper thing after all,” said Lady Thiselton.

”Doubtless we have missed some extraordinary delicacy,” said Morgan.

”But please tell me which particular 'ism' is in possession at the moment. I am not quite clear on the point.”

”That is just my state of mind. But I fancy that, at the present moment, I am given over to emotion rather than to thought. This interior is affecting me artistically. I was just thinking what a lovely Dutch picture it would make. But I really am sincere about my 'isms.' The arguments in favour of any one 'ism' are unanswerable, and I have to admit the truth of each, whenever I consider it. All human thought ends in the blind alley of Paradox. Hegel was a word-juggler.

Nice phrases are pleasing, but let us not take them seriously.”

And Lady Thiselton proceeded to utter a good many ”nice phrases,”

which Morgan found pleasing, and did not take seriously. Customers dropped in by ones and twos till at length all the other stalls were filled, everybody instinctively avoiding the stall where a tablecloth gleamed its white warning. When some men, having eaten, began smoking their clays, Lady Thiselton's sharp ear detected some speculative remarks about herself and Morgan, tinged with facetiousness and gore.

She thereupon suggested she was pining for something mystic and spiritualistic, being quite tired of this realistic interior.

”I am trying to banish it by contemplating the Blessed Damozel,” she said, and quoted whisperingly:

”'The Blessed Damozel leaned out From the gold bar of Heaven; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven.'”

A moment later they stepped out into the afternoon light that nearly blinded them with its mournful glare. But a heavy sadness had descended on Morgan. The lines Lady Thiselton had whispered to him had set him thinking of Margaret.

CHAPTER II.

The same evening, Morgan, not feeling any alarming symptoms, had to carry out his promise to join Lady Thiselton's little dinner party.

She received him with a formality that made him laugh inwardly--and almost outwardly. But the impulse died away as with a start he perceived that Robert Ingram was in the drawing-room. He reflected, however, that, though the encounter was an unexpected one, there was nothing very astonis.h.i.+ng about it. Helen had herself told him she had made the novelist's acquaintance, and to find him dining at her house was no matter for surprise. The position, nevertheless, was a most curious one, especially when their hostess unsuspectingly introduced the two men. Ingram's manner was a little bit bewildered, as if--from his knowledge of Morgan--he feared the latter might make a scene by dramatically cutting him.

However, nothing of the kind happened, Morgan behaving with perfect gravity. He had to give his arm to Mrs. Blackstone--Helen's dear friend, Laura, of whom she had spoken to him as the most stupid woman she knew. He would have welcomed the opportunity of talking to her--for he was sure her conception of Helen would be astonis.h.i.+ngly amusing, but he had a feeling that something important was going to arise from his coming here to-night, and that there were possibilities of explosion in the position. This gave him a general sense of expectant excitement, so that at first he was a little bit impatient of Mrs. Blackstone's remarks. He learnt that she admired intensely that sweet little poem of his, and that she had been longing to meet the writer; also that reading was a great blessing when one felt miserable. Did he not admire Mr. Ingram? She herself adored his work.

He was constrained to reply that Ingram was one of his literary heresies, whereupon she, with ready resource, supposed that tastes differed, and then, as the result of a luminous thought, she added that a poet would naturally not be so much interested in mere prose.

Of course poetry ranked the higher, but she was ashamed to confess--she made the confession without any sign of shame--she scarcely ever read any at all. She had several favourite novelists who each published so many books a year that it took all the time she could spare to keep pace with them.

”And indeed I'm glad they manage to write so much. They help to fight against the flood of nasty realistic works we get nowadays. I should like to see those all burnt.”

Mrs. Blackstone went on to observe that she couldn't make out why people went on writing such filth. She preferred books of a sound, moral tone.