“That is too deep for me,” said Morgan, evasively.  “I suppose they ought to be contented to see us enjoying ourselves.  It’s all in the way of civilization, I dare say.”

“It’s just as I thought,” said Margaret, more lightly.  “You haven’t an inkling of what civilization is.  See that flower before you.  It is the most exquisite thing in this room.  See the refinement of its color and form.  That was cultivated.  The plant came from South Africa.  I don’t know what expense the gardener has been to about it, what material and care have been necessary to bring it to perfection.  You may take it to Mrs. Morgan as an object-lesson.  It is a thing of beauty.  You cannot put any of your mercantile value on it.  Well, that is woman, the consummate flower of civilization.  That is what civilization is for.”

“I’m sorry for you, old fellow,” said Henderson.

“I’m sorry for myself,” Carmen said, demurely.

“I admit all that,” Morgan replied.  “Take Mr. Henderson as a gardener, then.”

“Suppose you take somebody else, and let my husband eat his dinner.”

“Oh, I don’t mind preaching; I’ve got used to being made to point a moral.”

“But he will go on next about the luxury of the age, and the extravagance of women, and goodness knows what,” said Margaret.

“No, I’m talking about men,” Morgan continued.  “Consider Henderson—­it’s entirely impersonal—­as a gardener.  What does he get out of his occupation?  He can look at the flower.  Perhaps that is enough.  He gets a good dinner when he has time for it, an hour at his club now and then, occasionally an evening or half a day off at home, a decent wardrobe—­”

“Fifty-two suits,” interposed Margaret.

“His own brougham—­”

“And a four-in-hand,” added Margaret.

“A pass on the elevated road—­”

“And a steam-yacht.”

“Which he never gets time to sail in; practically all the time on the road, or besieged by a throng in his office, hustled about from morning till night, begged of, interviewed, a telegraphic despatch every five minutes, and—­”

“And me!” cried Margaret, rising.  The guests all clapped their hands.

The Hendersons liked to have their house full, something going on —­dinners, musicales, readings, little comedies in the theatre; there was continual coming and going, calling, dropping in for a cup of tea, late suppers after the opera; the young fellows of town found no place so agreeable for a half-hour after business as Mrs. Henderson’s reception-room.  I fancied that life would be dull and hang heavily, especially for Margaret, without this perpetual movement and excitement.  Henderson, who certainly had excitement enough without seeking it at home, was pleased that his wife should be a leader in society, as he was in the great enterprises in which his fortune waxed to enormous proportions.  About what we call the home life I do not know.  Necessarily, as heretofore, Henderson was often absent, and whether Margaret accompanied him or not, a certain pace of life had to be kept up.