But at the operating-table Arthur was different. He was no longer the awkward man of social intercourse, who was sufficiently conscious of his limitations not to talk of what he did not understand, and sincere enough not to express admiration for what he did not like. Then, on the other hand, a singular exhilaration filled him; he was conscious of his power, and he rejoiced in it. No unforeseen accident was able to confuse him. He seemed to have a positive instinct for operating, and his hand and his brain worked in a manner that appeared almost automatic. He never hesitated, and he had no fear of failure. His success had been no less than his courage, and it was plain that soon his reputation with the public would equal that which he had already with the profession.
Dr. Porhoët had been making listless patterns with his stick upon the gravel, and now, with that charming smile of his, turned to Arthur.
“I never cease to be astonished at the unexpectedness of human nature,” he remarked. “It is really very surprising that a man like you should fall so deeply in love with a girl like Margaret Dauncey.”
Arthur made no reply, and Dr. Porhoët, fearing that his words might offend, hastened to explain.
“You know as well as I do that I think her a very charming young person. She has beauty and grace and sympathy. But your characters are more different than chalk and cheese. Notwithstanding your birth in the East and your boyhood spent amid the very scenes of the Thousand and One Nights, you are the most matter-of-fact creature I have ever come across.”
“I see no harm in your saying insular,” smiled Arthur. “I confess that I have no imagination and no sense of humour. I am a plain, practical man, but I can see to the end of my nose with extreme clearness. Fortunately it is rather a long one.”
“One of my cherished ideas is that it is impossible to love without imagination.”
Again Arthur Burdon made no reply, but a curious look came into his eyes as he gazed in front of him. It was the look which might fill the passionate eyes of a mystic when he saw in ecstasy the Divine Lady of his constant prayers.
“But Miss Dauncey has none of that narrowness of outlook which, if you will forgive my saying so, is perhaps the secret of your strength. She has a delightful enthusiasm for every form of art. Beauty really means as much to her as bread and butter to the more soberly-minded. And she takes a passionate interest in the variety of life.”
“It is right that Margaret should care for beauty, since there is beauty in every inch of her,” answered Arthur.
He was too reticent to proceed to any analysis of his feelings; but he knew that he had cared for her first on account of that physical perfection which contrasted so astonishingly with the countless deformities in the study of which his life was spent. But one phrase escaped him almost against his will.
“The first time I saw her I felt as though a new world had opened to my ken.”
The divine music of Keats’s lines rang through Arthur’s remark, and to the Frenchman’s mind gave his passion a romantic note that foreboded future tragedy. He sought to dispel the cloud which his fancy had cast upon the most satisfactory of love affairs.
“You are very lucky, my friend. Miss Margaret admires you as much as you adore her. She is never tired of listening to my prosy stories of your childhood in Alexandria, and I’m quite sure that she will make you the most admirable of wives.”
“You can’t be more sure than I am,” laughed Arthur.
He looked upon himself as a happy man. He loved Margaret with all his heart, and he was confident in her great affection for him. It was impossible that anything should arise to disturb the pleasant life which they had planned together. His love cast a glamour upon his work, and his work, by contrast, made love the more entrancing.
“We’re going to fix the date of our marriage now,” he said. “I’m buying furniture already.”
“I think only English people could have behaved so oddly as you, in postponing your marriage without reason for two mortal years.”
“You see, Margaret was ten when I first saw her, and only seventeen when I asked her to marry me. She thought she had reason to be grateful to me and would have married me there and then. But I knew she hankered after these two years in Paris, and I didn’t feel it was fair to bind her to me till she had seen at least something of the world. And she seemed hardly ready for marriage; she was growing still.”
“Did I not say that you were a matter-of-fact young man?” smiled Dr. Porhoët.
“And it’s not as if there had been any doubt about our knowing our minds. We both cared, and we had a long time before us. We could afford to wait.”
At that moment a man strolled past them, a big stout fellow, showily dressed in a check suit; and he gravely took off his hat to Dr. Porhoët. The doctor smiled and returned the salute.
“Who is your fat friend?” asked Arthur.
“That is a compatriot of yours. His name is Oliver Haddo.”
“Art-student?” inquired Arthur, with the scornful tone he used when referring to those whose walk in life was not so practical as his own.
“Not exactly. I met him a little while ago by chance. When I was getting together the material for my little book on the old alchemists I read a great deal at the library of the Arsenal, which, you may have heard, is singularly rich in all works dealing with the occult sciences.”
Burdon’s face assumed an expression of amused disdain. He could not understand why Dr. Porhoët occupied his leisure with studies so profitless. He had read his book, recently published, on the more famous of the alchemists; and, though forced to admire the profound knowledge upon which it was based, he could not forgive the waste of time which his friend might have expended more usefully on topics of pressing moment.
“Not many people study in that library,” pursued the doctor, “and I soon knew by sight those who were frequently there. I saw this gentleman every day. He was immersed in strange old books when I arrived early in the morning, and he was reading them still when I left, exhausted. Sometimes it happened that he had the volumes I asked for, and I discovered that he was studying the same subjects as myself. His appearance was extraordinary, but scarcely sympathetic; so, though I fancied that he gave me opportunities to address him, I did not avail myself of them. One day, however, curiously enough, I was looking up some point upon which it seemed impossible to find authorities. The librarian could not help me, and I had given up the search, when this person brought me the very book I needed. I surmised that the librarian had told him of my difficulty. I was very grateful to the stranger. We left together that afternoon, and our kindred studies gave us a common topic of conversation. I found that his reading was extraordinarily wide, and he was able to give me information about works which I had never even heard of. He had the advantage over me that he could apparently read Hebrew as well as Arabic, and he had studied the Kabbalah in the original.”
“And much good it did him, I have no doubt,” said Arthur. “And what is he by profession?”
Dr.