in catching Spence's eye, and made him understand with a savage look that he was to take Cecily with him. This arrangement was effected, and the first carriage drove off with those two, Cecily exchanging merry words with an old Italian who had rendered no kind of service, but came to beg his mancia on the strength of being able to utter a few sentences in English.
For the first time, Mallard was alone with Mrs. Baske. Miriam had not concealed surprise at the new adjustment of companionship; she looked curiously both at Cecily and at Mallard whilst it was going on. The first remark which the artist addressed to her, when they had been driving for a few minutes, was perhaps, she thought, an explanation of the proceeding.
"I shall meet your brother again at Pompeii to-morrow, Mrs. Baske."
"Have you seen much of him since he came?" Miriam asked constrainedly. She had not met Mallard since Reuben's arrival.
"Oh yes. We have dined together each evening."
Between two such unloquacious persons, dialogue was naturally slow at first, but they had a long drive before them. Miriam presently trusted herself to ask—
"Has he spoken to you at all of his plans—of what he is going to do when he returns to England?"
"In general terms only. He has literary projects."
"Do you put any faith in them, Mr. Mallard?"
This was a sudden step towards intimacy. As she spoke, Miriam looked at him in a way that he felt to be appealing. He answered the look frankly.
"I think he has the power to do something worth doing. Whether his perseverance will carry him through it, is another question."
"He speaks to me of you in a way that—He seems, I mean, to put a value on your friendship, and I think you may still influence him. I am very glad he has met you here."
"I have very little faith in the influence of one person on another, Mrs. Baske. For ill—yes, that is often seen; but influence of the kind you suggest is the rarest of things."
"I'm afraid you are right."
She retreated into herself, and, when he looked at her, he saw cold reserve once more on her countenance. Doubtless she did not choose to let him know how deeply this question of his power concerned her. Mallard felt something like compassion; yet not ordinary compassion either, for at the same time he had a desire to break down this reserve, and see still more of what she felt. Curious; that evening when he dined at the villa, he had already become aware of this sort of attraction in her, an appeal to his sympathies together with the excitement of his combative spirit—if that expressed it.
"No man," he remarked, "ever did solid work except in his own strength. One can be encouraged in effort, but the effort must originate in one's self."
Miriam kept silence. He put a direct question.
"Have you yourself encouraged him to pursue this idea?"
"I have not discouraged him."
"In your brother's case, discouragement would probably be the result if direct encouragement were withheld."
Again she said nothing, and again Mallard felt a desire to subdue the pride, or whatever it might be, that had checked the growth of friendliness between them in its very beginning. He remained mute for a long time, until they were nearing Pozzuoli, but Miriam showed no disposition to be the first to speak. At length he said abruptly:
"Shall you go to the San Carlo during the winter?"
"The San Carlo?" she asked inquiringly.
"The opera."
Mallard was in a strange mood. Whenever he looked ahead at Cecily, he had a miserable longing which crushed his heart down, down; in struggling against this, he felt that Mrs. Baske's proximity was an aid, but that it would be still more so if he could move her to any unusual self-revelation. He had impulses to offend her, to irritate her prejudices—anything, so she should but be moved. This question that fell from him was mild in comparison with some of the subjects that pressed on his harassed brain.
"I don't go to theatres," Miriam replied distantly.
"That is losing much pleasure."
"The word has very different meanings."
She was roused. Mallard observed with a perverse satisfaction the scorn implied in this rejoinder. He noted that her features had more decided beauty than when placid.
"I imagine," he resumed, smiling at her, "that the life of an artist must seem to you frivolous, if not something worse. I mean an artist in the sense of a painter."
"I cannot think it the highest kind of life," Miriam replied, also smiling, but ominously.
"As Miss Doran does," added Mallard, his eyes happening to catch Cecily's face as it looked backwards, and his tongue speaking recklessly.
"There are very few subjects on which Miss Doran and I think alike."
He durst not pursue this; in his state of mind, the danger of committing some flagrant absurdity was too great. The subject attracted him like an evil temptation, for he desired to have Miriam speak of Cecily. But he mastered himself.
"The artist's life may be the highest of which a particular man is capable. For instance, I think it is so in my own case."
Miriam seemed about to keep silence again, but ultimately she spoke. The voice suggested that upon her too there was a constraint of some kind.
"On what grounds do you believe that?"
His eyes sought her face rapidly. Was she ironical at his expense? That would be new light upon her mind, for hitherto she had seemed to him painfully literal. Irony meant intellect; mere scorn or pride might signify anything but that. And he was hoping to find reserves of power in her, such as would rescue her from the imputation of commonplaceness in her beliefs. Testing her with his eye, he answered meaningly:
"Not, I admit, on the ground of recognized success."
Miriam made a nervous movement, and her brows contracted. Without looking at him, she said, in a voice which seemed rather to resent his interpretation than to be earnest in deprecating it:
"You know, Mr. Mallard, that I meant nothing of the kind."
"Yet I could have understood you, if you had. Naturally you must wonder a little at a man's passing his life as I do. You interpret life absolutely; it is your belief that it can have only one meaning, the same for all, involving certain duties of which there can be no question, and admitting certain relaxations which have endured the moral test. A man may not fritter away the years that are granted him; and that is what I seem to you to be doing, at best."
"Why should you suppose that I take upon myself to judge you?"
"Forgive me; I think it is one result of your mental habits that you judge all who differ from you."
This time she clearly was resolved to make no reply. They were passing through Pozzuoli, and she appeared to forget the discussion in looking about her. Mallard watched her, but she showed no consciousness
