Maggie MacKeever by The Right Honourable Viscount Page A

truly should be the basis of representation, and not property.”
    “My darling, I do not deny it.” Lord Darby ruthlessly struggled for and won possession of a chair, which he drew up beside Miss Phyfe. “What I do question is your very naive assumption that parliamentary reform will cure all the nation’s ills. It is the working-class viewpoint that a reformed government would end waste and corruption and taxes. You must needs be more realistic, Miss Phyfe.”
    Morgan had suffered several distinct shocks during her tête-à-tête with “Devil” Darby, not least of which was the discovery that England’s most notorious rake-hell was politically aware. Indeed, he was so very politically aware that conversation with him was like a cool drink of water after a long drought.
    However, it was not politics that engaged Morgan’s mind at this particular moment. “What did you call me?”
    “My darling?” Lord Darby looked apologetic. “Pray do not be offended. I fear it is a habit with me, Miss Phyfe.”
    Absurd, to feel so disappointed. “Not a very laudable habit, sir.”
    “No, and one of several that must be equally deplored by persons of refined sensibilities. I hope that you are not thus afflicted, Miss Phyfe. Because I cannot guarantee that I shall refrain from further such slips of the tongue—although I shall try very hard to do so.”
    Absurd, also, to be dazzled at the prospect of further conversations with his lordship. “You need not put yourself to such effort,” Morgan said wryly. “I promise I shall not attach undue significance to anything you say to me. But I am so surprised to find you so well informed.” He looked quizzical. “About politics!”
    Thus put firmly in his place, Lord Darby proceeded to firmly entrench himself. “Your comments upon our last meeting inspired me to look into the matter, as I have told you, Miss Phyfe. I have been doing a monstrous amount of reading. My man fears for my eyesight.”
    Heaven forbid that his lordship came to harm, thought Morgan, and then took herself to task. She would not again be diverted. Best that his lordship’s sallies be confined to politics. “And what have you been reading, sir?”
    How predictable she was—and yet she was not. And how the Polite World must be whispering behind their gloves and fans and handkerchiefs, because for Darby to engage in so long a conversation with an unmarried female was a singular mark of favor.
    In anticipation of Miss Phyfe’s reaction when that gossip reached her ears, Lord Darby’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, a veritable hodgepodge. My favorite was ‘Politics for the People, or Hog Wash,’ although you are currently without rival in the area of seditious pamphlets, Miss Phyfe. Even if you are quite unscrupulous about pilfering a phrase. Then there was Mr. Burke’s Reflections on the Revolution in France, which was not especially helpful, because I was quite put off by his insistence on referring to the masses as a ‘swinish multitude.’ Nor was Charge to the Grand Jury of Middlesex, in which Mr. William Mainwaring said there’s no such thing as equality. Or Short Hints upon Leveling, which inclines to the scriptural view that the poor will always be with us. I beg your pardon, Miss Phyfe. Did you speak?”
    She had not, other than to emit an annoyed expulsion of breath. “I think that you are making mock of me!” she snapped.
    “Oh, no,” his lordship responded gently. “I would not need to read such a prodigious amount of dreary stuff to do that, my — Miss Phyfe. Let us say instead that I have come to a belated sense of my purpose in life.”
    Darby would be an eloquent voice in behalf of reform, could he be persuaded to make the effort. Instinctive caution warred in Morgan’s breast with her crusading zeal. “Are you truly interested in worthwhile literature? I myself have an excellent library.”
    That it was neither worthwhile literature nor parliamentary reform that had aroused his