Mallard paid little heed to the things about him; he walked on and on, watching for a vehicle, listening for the tread of horses.  Sometimes he could see the white road-track miles away, and he strained his eyes in observing it.  Twice or thrice he was deceived; a carriage came towards him, and with agitation he waited to see its occupants, only to be disappointed by strange faces.

There are few things more pathetic than persistency in hope due to ignorance of something that has befallen beyond our ken.  It is one of those instances of the irony inherent in human fate which move at once to tears and bitter laughter; the waste of emotion, the involuntary folly, the cruel deception caused by limit of faculties—­how they concentrate into an hour or a day the essence of life itself!

He walked on and on; as well do this as go back and loiter fretfully at the hotel.  He got as far as the Capo d’ Orso, the headland half-way between Amalfi and Salerno, and there sat down by the wayside to rest.  From this point Salerno was first visible, in the far distance, between the sea and the purple Apennines.

Either Elgar was not coming, or he had lingered long between the two portions of his journey.

Mallard turned back; if the carriage came, it would overtake him.  He plodded slowly, the evening falling around him in still loveliness, fragrance from the groves of orange and lemon spread on every motion of the air.

And if he did not come?  That must have some strange meaning.  In any case, he must surely write.  And ten to one his letter would be a lie.  What was to be expected of him but a lie?

Monday, Tuesday, and now Wednesday morning.  Hitherto not even a letter.

When it was clear that Elgar had disregarded his promise, and, for whatever reason, did not even seek to justify or excuse himself, there came upon Mallard a strong mood of scorn, which for some hours enabled him to act as though all his anxiety were at an end.  He set himself a piece of work; a flash of the familiar energy traversed his mind.  He believed that at length his degradation was over, and that, come what might, he could now face it sturdily.  Mere self-deception, of course.  The sun veiled itself, and hope was as far as ever.

Never before had he utterly lost the power of working.  In every struggle he had speedily overcome, and found in work the one unfailing resource.  If he were robbed of this, what stay had life for him henceforth?  He could not try to persuade himself that his suffering would pass, sooner or later, and time grant him convalescence; the blackness ahead was too profound.  He fell again into torpor, and let the days go as they would; he cared not.

But this morning brought him a letter.  At the first glance he was surprised by a handwriting which was not Elgar’s; recollecting himself, he knew it for that of Mrs. Lessingham.

“DEAR MR. MALLARD,—­