The Magician | Page 5

had excited
his enthusiasm. During luncheon he talked of nothing else, and Dr
Porhoët, drawing upon his memory, recounted the more extraordinary
operations that he had witnessed in Egypt.
He had known Arthur Burdon ever since he was born, and indeed had
missed being present at his birth only because the Khedive Ismaïl had
summoned him unexpectedly to Cairo. But the Levantine merchant
who was Arthur's father had been his most intimate friend, and it was
with singular pleasure that Dr Porhoët saw the young man, on his
advice, enter his own profession and achieve a distinction which
himself had never won.
Though too much interested in the characters of the persons whom
chance threw in his path to have much ambition on his own behalf, it
pleased him to see it in others. He observed with satisfaction the pride
which Arthur took in his calling and the determination, backed by his
confidence and talent, to become a master of his art. Dr Porhoët knew

that a diversity of interests, though it adds charm to a man's personality,
tends to weaken him. To excel one's fellows it is needful to be
circumscribed. He did not regret, therefore, that Arthur in many ways
was narrow. Letters and the arts meant little to him. Nor would he
trouble himself with the graceful trivialities which make a man a good
talker. In mixed company he was content to listen silently to others, and
only something very definite to say could tempt him to join in the
general conversation. He worked very hard, operating, dissecting, or
lecturing at his hospital, and took pains to read every word, not only in
English, but in French and German, which was published concerning
his profession. Whenever he could snatch a free day he spent it on the
golf-links of Sunningdale, for he was an eager and a fine player.
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 won
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 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