adness 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 astonishing 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 astonishingly
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 wr