me that he is singularly like
Menlo,--when Helena is not there,--just jogging along in aristocratic
seclusion punctuated by the epigrams of Rose and Eugene Fort. I'm sure
Mr. James could, write a novel of Menlo Park; he just revels in
irradiating nothing with genius. There! I feel so guilty, for I really
do love Menlo,--with intervals of Europe,--but I've been visiting Rose,
and I'm afraid I'm plagiarising a little; you know I'm not one bit
clever. Only I really feel so when I read Mr. James. And he'll be such
company in Menlo this summer. Just think, I shall be all alone there,
when I'm not visiting Helena or Caro. Is--is--" she glanced about
fearfully--"is there no hope of dear Don Roberto relenting?"

"I am afraid not. But it is such a comfort to have you back. I heard you
were engaged--to an Englishman, or something?"

Tiny blushed. She was on her way to a tea, and looked exquisitely pretty
in a fawn-coloured _crepe de chine_ embroidered with wild roses, and a
bonnet of pink tulle crushed about her face. Magdalena wondered why some
man had not married her out of hand, then reflected that Tiny was likely
to dispose of her own future.

"I'm not quite sure," said Miss Montgomery, looking innocently at a
lithograph of the Virgin which still decorated the wall. "You see, he
has a title, and it's so commonplace to marry a title. But if I decide
to, I'll let you know the very first."

Shortly after she went away--and left Magdalena alone with Henry James.

She took up one of the volumes. As she did so, something stirred in the
cellars of her mind--beat its stiff wings against the narrow
walls--struggled forward and upward.

She stood on the porch in the late evening: alone in a fog. Her young
mind opened to literary desire--preceding it was a swift disturbing
presentiment; it had recurred once, and again--but not for several
years. What did it mean, here again? And what had Henry James to do with
it? She dropped into a chair. Her hands trembled as they opened the
book.

XXX

It was a week before she squarely faced the relation of Henry James to
her own ambitions. Then she admitted it in so many words: she could not
write, she never could write. The writers who were dust had inspired her
to emulation; it took a great contemporary to bring her despair. It is
only the living enemies we fear; the dead and their past are beautiful
unrealities to the smarting ego.

Magdalena realised for the first time the ex