Poor boy, I had to send him a negative by the fifteenth groom in the third phaeton, drawn by a pair of dashing chestnuts which another of my unsuccessful adorers had given me. I noticed that when they got back to Grosvenor Square the chestnuts had turned to greys.
The Sage of Chelsea.
Thomas Carlyle loved to have me trotting in and out of his house in Cheyne Row, and we had endless talks on the desirability of silence. "Yon wee Meg," he used to say, for he refused to call me "Margot," declaring it was a Frenchified name—"yon wee Meg is the cleverest girl in Scotland—and the wittiest."
I remember once that Ruskin was there too, and we had a little breeze.
Ruskin (patronisingly). What do you think of the paintings of Turner?
Margot. He bores me.
Ruskin (drawing in a long breath). Bores you?
Margot (with a slow smile). He probably bores you too, only you daren't admit it.
What would have happened I cannot imagine had not dear old Carlyle offered me a draw of his pipe, while remarking laughingly, "She's a wonder, is Meg; she'll lead the world yet."
One day he asked me what I thought of his writing.