Indeed, Mr. Myre was thrilled at a far more emotional prospect than any view of a Thames reach. For days the newspapers had been quarrelling over him—his name was everywhere. Worry, worry, worry! and in the midst of the din was always Quilliam O’Flaherty Macloughlin Myre.
He had struck a master-stroke....
Quogge Myre had become weary of his scandal. The novelty of his relation to Marguerite Olmé was flown. He was not even barred. People treated it as carelessly as though it had been marriage. Nay, worse; society was grown tired of it—he was not asked out so much as he had been.
He could see nothing more to be got out of the romantic association; he had had a splendid flash of life with her, the glamour that still remained was but the after-glow——
And the stage notoriously aged women!
He was no weakling to dawdle on in the twilight of a romance, kicking his feet aimlessly through the fallen leaves of a withered passion.
He saw that he must do something original—or with an original air.
He had conceived a bold scheme for a renewal of public interest in him and his works.
He had given to the world a recklessly daring account of his most intimate relations with the great actress, thinly disguised as a romance—indeed, he had forestalled all misunderstanding, had drawn aside all shred of disguise, by inspiring preliminary paragraphs in the press.
The result went beyond his wildest hopes; raised him beyond his fondest conceit.