"Quite well. I have had two letters from her since I was here. She wished me to give you her love."
"I will write to her. And is old Don still alive?"
"Yes, but very feeble, poor old fellow. He forgets even to be angry with the baker's boy."
Cecily laughed with a moved playfulness.
"He has forgotten me. I don't like to be forgotten by any one who ever cared for me."
There was a pause. They came back into the room, and Cecily, with a look of hesitation, asked quietly—
"Have you heard of late from Reuben?"
Miriam, with averted eyes, answered simply, "No." Again there was silence, until Cecily, moving about the room, came to the "St. Cecilia."
"So my patron saint is always before you. I am glad of that. Where is the original of this picture, Miriam? I forget."
"I never knew."
"Oh, I wished to speak to you of Mr. Mallard. You met him yesterday. Had you much conversation?"
"A good deal. He dined with us."
"Did he? I thought it possible. And do you like him?"
"I couldn't say until I knew him better."
"It isn't easy to know him, I think," said Cecily, in a reflective and perfectly natural tone, smiling thoughtfully. "But he is a very interesting man, and I wish he would be more friendly with me. I tried hard to win his confidence on the journey from Genoa, but I didn't seem to have much success. I fancy"—she laughed—"that he is still in the habit of regarding me as a little girl, who wouldn't quite understand him if he spoke of serious things. When I wished to talk of his painting, he would only joke. That annoyed me a little, and I tried to let him see that it did, with the result that he refused to speak of anything for a long time."
"What does Mr. Mallard paint?" Miriam asked, half absently.
"Landscape," was the reply, given with veiled surprise. "Did you never see anything of his?"
"I remember; the Bradshaws have a picture by him in their dining-room. They showed it me when I was last in Manchester. I'm afraid I looked at it very inattentively, for it has never re-entered my mind from that day to this. But I was ill at the time."
"His pictures are neglected," said Cecily, "but people who understand them say they have great value. If he has anything accepted by the Academy, it is sure to be hung out of sight. I think he is wrong to exhibit there at all. Academies are foolish things, and always give most encouragement to the men who are worth least. When there is talk of such subjects, I never lose an opportunity of mentioning Mr. Mallard's name, and telling all I can about his work. Some day I shall, perhaps, be able to help him. I will insist on every friend of mine who buys pictures at all possessing at least one of Mr. Mallard's; then, perhaps, he will condescend to talk with me of serious things."
She added the last sentence merrily, meeting Miriam's look with the frankest eyes.
"Does Mrs. Lessingham hold the same opinion?" Miriam inquired.
"Oh yes! Aunt, of course, knows far more about art than I do, and she thinks very highly indeed of Mr. Mallard. Not long ago she met M. Lambert at a friend's house in Paris—the French critic who has just been writing about English landscape—and he mentioned Mr. Mallard with great respect. That was splendid, wasn't it?"
She spoke with joyous spiritedness. However modern, Cecily, it was clear, had caught nothing of the disease of pococurantism. Into whatever pleased her or enlisted her sympathies, she threw all the glad energies of her being. The scornful remark on the Royal Academy was, one could see, not so much a mere echo of advanced opinion, as a piece of championship in a friend's cause. The respect with which she mentioned the name of the French critic, her exultation in his dictum, were notes of a youthful idealism which interpreted the world nobly, and took its stand on generous beliefs.
"Mr. Mallard will help you to see Naples, no doubt," said Miriam.
"Indeed, I wish he would. But he distinctly told us that he has no time. He is going to Amalfi in a few days, to work. I begged him at least to go to Pompeii with us, but he frowned—as he so often does—and seemed unwilling to be persuaded; so I said no more. There again, I feel sure he was afraid of being annoyed by trifling talk in such places. But one mustn't judge an artist like other men. To be sure, anything I could say or think would be trivial compared with what is in his mind."
"But isn't it rather discourteous?" Miriam observed impartially.
"Oh, I could never think of it in that way! An artist is privileged; he must defend his time and his sensibilities. The common terms of society have no application to him. Don't you feel that, Miriam?"
"I know so little of art and artists. But such a claim seems to me very strange."
Cecily laughed.
"This is one of a thousand things we will talk about. Art is the grandest thing in the world; it means everything that is strong and beautiful—statues, pictures, poetry, music. How could one live without art? The artist is born a prince among men. What has he to do with the rules by which common people must direct their lives? Before long, you will feel this as deeply as I do, Miriam. We are in Italy, Italy!"
"Shall we go back to the others?" Miriam suggested, in a voice which contrasted curiously with that exultant cry.
"Yes; it is time."
Cecily's eyes fell on the plans of the chapel, which were still lying open.
"What is this?" she asked. "Something in Naples? Oh no!"
"It's nothing," said Miriam, carelessly. "Come, Cecily."
The visitors took their leave just as the midday cannon boomed from Sant' Elmo. They had promised to come and dine in a day or two. After their departure, Miriam showed as little disposition to make comments as she had to indulge in expectation before their arrival. Eleanor and her husband put less restraint upon themselves.
"Heavens!" cried Spence, when they were alone; "what astounding capacity of growth was in that child!"
"She is a swift and beautiful creature!" said Eleanor, in a warm undertone characteristic of her when she expressed admiration.
"I wish I could have overheard the interview in Miriam's room."
"I never felt more curiosity about anything. Pity one is not a psychological artist. I should have stolen to the keyhole and committed eavesdropping with a glow of self-approval."
"I half understand our friend Mallard."
"So do I, Ned."
They looked at each other and smiled significantly.
That evening Spence again had a walk with the artist. He returned to the villa alone, and only just in time to dress for dinner. Guests were expected, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw of Manchester, old acquaintances of the Spences and of Miriam. When it had become known that Mrs. Baske, advised to pass the winter in a mild climate, was about to accept an invitation from her cousin and go by sea to Naples, the Bradshaws, to the astonishment of all their friends, offered to accompany her. It was the first time that either of them had left England, and they seemed most unlikely people to be suddenly affected with a zeal for foreign travel. Miriam gladly welcomed their proposal, and it was put into execution.
When Spence entered the room his friends had already arrived. Mr. Bradshaw stood in the attitude familiar to him when on his own hearthrug, his back turned to that part of the wall where in England would have been a fireplace, and one hand thrust into the pocket of his evening coat.
"I tell you what it is, Spence!" he exclaimed, "I'm very much afraid I shall be committing an assault. Certainly I shall if I don't soon learn some good racy Italian. I must make out a little list of sentences, and get you or Mrs. Spence to translate them. Such as 'Do you take me for a fool?' or 'Be off, you scoundrel!' or 'I'll break every bone