"Even if the world recognized me as an artist of distinction," he resumed, "you would still regard me as doubtfully employed. Art does not seem to you an end of sufficient gravity. Probably you had rather there were no such thing, if it were practicable."
"There is surely a great responsibility on any one who makes it the end of life."
This was milder again, and just when he had anticipated the opposite.
"A responsibility to himself, yes. Well, when I say that I believe this course is the highest I can follow, I mean that I believe it employs all my best natural powers as no other would. As for highest in the absolute sense, that is a different matter. Possibly the life of a hospital nurse, of a sister of mercy—something of that kind—comes nearest to the ideal."
She glanced at him, evidently in the same kind of doubt about his meaning as he had recently felt about hers.
"Why should you speak contemptuously of such people?"
"Contemptuously? I speak sincerely. In a world where pain is the most obvious fact, the task of mercy must surely take precedence of most others."
"I am surprised to hear you say this."
It was spoken in the tone most characteristic of her, that of a proud condescension.
"Why, Mrs. Baske?"
She hesitated a little, but made answer:
"I don't mean that I think you unfeeling, but your interests seem to be so far from such simple things."
"True."
Again a long silence. The carriage was descending the road from Pozzuoli; it approached the sea-shore, where the gentle breakers were beginning to be tinged with evening light. Cecily looked back and waved her hand.
"When you say that art is an end in itself," Miriam resumed abruptly, "you claim, I suppose, that it is a way of serving mankind?"
Mallard was learning the significance of her tones. In this instance, he knew that the words "serving mankind" were a contemptuous use of a phrase she had heard, a phrase which represented the philosophy alien to her own.
"Indeed, I claim nothing of the kind," he replied, laughing. "Art may, or may not, serve such a purpose; but be assured that the artist never thinks of his work in that way."
"You make no claim, then, even of usefulness?"
"Most decidedly, none. You little imagine how distasteful the word is to me in such connection."
"Then how can you say you are employing your best natural powers?"
She had fallen to ingenuous surprise, and Mallard again laughed, partly at the simplicity of the question, partly because it pleased him to have brought her to such directness.
"Because," he answered, "this work gives me keener and more lasting pleasure than any other would. And I am not a man easily pleased with my own endeavours, Mrs. Baske. I work with little or no hope of ever satisfying myself—that is another thing. I have heard men speak of my kind of art as 'the noble pursuit of Truth,' and so on. I don't care for such phrases; they may mean something, but as a rule come of the very spirit so opposed to my own—that which feels it necessary to justify art by bombast. The one object I have in life is to paint a bit of the world just as I see it. I exhaust myself in vain toil; I shall never succeed; but I am right to persevere, I am right to go on pleasing myself."
Miriam listened in astonishment.
"With such views, Mr. Mallard, it is fortunate that you happen to find pleasure in painting pictures."
"Which, at all events, do people no harm."
She turned upon him suddenly.
"Do you encourage my brother in believing that his duty in life is to please himself?"
"It has been my effort," he replied gravely.
"I don't understand you," Miriam said, in indignation.
"No, you do not. I mean to say that I believe your brother is not really pleased with the kind of life he has too long been leading; that to please himself he must begin serious work of some kind."
"That is playing with words, and on a subject ill-chosen for it."
"Mrs. Baske, do you seriously believe that Reuben Elgar can be made a man of steady purpose by considerations that have primary reference to any one or anything but himself?"
She made no answer.
"I am not depreciating him. The same will apply (if you are content to face the truth) to many a man whom you would esteem. I am sorry that I have lost your confidence, but that is better than to keep it by repeating idle formulas that the world's experience has outgrown."
Miriam pondered, then said quietly:
"We have different thoughts, Mr. Mallard, and speak different languages."
"But we know a little more of each other than we did. For my part, I feel it a gain."
During the rest of the drive they scarcely spoke at all; the few sentences exchanged were mere remarks upon the scenery. Both carriages drew up at the gate of the villa, where Miriam and Mallard alighted. Spence, rising, called to the latter.
"Will you accompany Miss Doran the rest of the way?"
"Certainly."
Mallard took his seat in the other carriage; and, as it drove off, he looked back. Miriam was gazing after them.
Cecily was a little tired, and not much disposed to converse. Her companion being still less so, they reached the Mergellina without having broached any subject.
"It has been an unforgettable day," Cecily said, as they parted.
CHAPTER VI
CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS
He had taken leave of the Spences and Mrs. Baske, yet was not sure that he should go. He had said good-bye to Mrs. Lessingham and to Cecily herself, yet made no haste to depart. It drew on to evening, and he sat idly in his room in Casa Rolandi, looking at his traps half packed. Then of a sudden up he started. "Imbecile! Insensate! I give you fifteen minutes to be on your way to the station. Miss the next train—and sink to the level of common men!" Shirts, socks—straps, locks; adieux, tips—horses, whips! Clatter through the Piazzetta Mondragone; down at breakneck speed to the Toledo; across the Piazza del Municipio; a good-bye to the public scriveners sitting at their little tables by the San Carlo; sharp round the corner, and along by the Porto Grande with its throng of vessels. All the time he sings a tune to himself, caught up in the streets of
