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With Cap'n Ira and Prudence she was never shy, and when the captain of the Seamew came back again he found such a different girl at the old house on Wreckers' Head that he could scarcely believe she was the Sheila Macklin who had told him her history on the bench on Boston Common.
Whether he was altogether a wise man was perhaps a subject for argument. At least, his future conduct must settle that point. But for the moment, when Sheila Macklin had made her last statement, it seemed that every atom of thought and all ability to consider matters logically were drained out of the man's mind. That mind was perfectly blank.
"He at once decided the public taste," said Macklin; and Pope summed up the victory in the well-known sentence, "That young man never had an equal, and will never have a rival." Tennyson's line furnishes the apt and comprehensive comment "The many fail, the one succeeds."
There came Blanchard, the young and progressive publisher of the "Beau Monde", a weekly whose circulation rivalled that of "Macintyre's". There came also young Macklin, Mrs. Patton's nephew, with his monocle and his killing drawl.
"I don't remember any more," said Macklin sullenly, for the spot where Ronicky's fist landed on his jaw was beginning to ache. "I didn't sit down and have any chats with her. She just spoke to me once in a while when I did something for her. I suppose you fellows have some crooked work on hand for her?" "We're bringing her good news," said Ronicky calmly.
"Going to argue with this gent in a way he'll understand a pile better than the chatter we've been making so far." He stepped a long light pace forward. "Macklin, you know what we want to find out. Will you talk?" A cloud of red gathered before the eyes of Macklin. It was impossible that he must believe his ears, and yet the words still rang there.
Now tell me something as to who lives yonder at No. 100. I am not asking out of idle curiosity." "I can't tell you the gentleman's name, sir," Macklin replied. "But I can find out. The people have not been there very long. A few good servants, but no men, no ladies so far as I can tell, and the master what you might call a confirmed invalid.
It was really one not overly large room, with a little alcove adjoining; but Robert Macklin had seized the opportunity to hang a curtain across the alcove, and, since it was large enough to contain a chair and a bookshelf, he referred to it always as his "library."
Macklin came by these honestly, having been brought up in England; but Thyrsis did not know that he only heard the young gentleman's passing reference to his yacht, and to his passion for the poetry of Stephane Mallarme; and so he had it in for Macklin. Thyrsis had got involved in a serious discussion with Mrs.
Murmurs of discontent from the ladies in my box, who regretted their sentimental comedy and their silver- toned Barry, were all lost upon me; I rejoiced that I should see Macklin in Shylock. Before the performance began, my attention was again caught by the proceedings of the persons in the next box. There seemed to be some sudden cause of distress, as I gathered from exclamations of "How unlucky!
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