or in the green baize into the attic
itself.

"Was I not to be the candle-bearer?" he asked, taking the light from
her. "What a tremendous place!"

"It's perfectly ripping," said Margaret, "though I reckon it won't
hold more than four of us when we're in a gay mood. That's an old
piano. It takes up a lot of room, but there's still a good deal of
thumping to be got out of it. As yet the place is quite bare, but all
next week I'm going to hunt up odd things in back streets, and when
you come again you'll be astonished at the transformation. All that
mess there covered up in the corner--well, you can guess what it
consists of."

"And where are Chiron and the Spanish gentleman?"

"The first casts are on the mantel yonder--lost in the gloom. Pa wants
them for the drawing-room, but I am so childishly pleased, I can't
part with them yet. The moulds were to be destroyed after sixty
examples of each had been taken. I have received twenty-five pounds
each. You see, Morgan, I, too, am a genius."

On closer examination Morgan found he could conscientiously extol
Margaret's handiwork. From a technical point of view both figures were
excellent, and there was a virility and vigour in the handling which
one would scarcely have associated with the work of a young lady
modeller, and which certainly showed she had towered above her
material. The Spanish Marauder swaggered along in helmet,
breast-plate, doublet and hose, a hare and pheasant slung jauntily
over his shoulder, and his jolly, devil-may-care face, that had
evidently smelt powder, full of an arrogant self-satisfaction. The
Chiron was a strong piece of anatomical modelling. The ancient
centaur, indeed, looked very wise and very noble, and the horse into
which he merged was arranged with quiet skill in its lying posture, so
that not a line, limb, hoof or muscle struck a note of awkwardness.

"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."

"Wh