Mrs. Lessingham had made no mention of this little matter.  Hearing of it, Mallard ejaculated mentally, “Idiot!”

“It was all over with me.  I broke faith with you—­as I should have done with any man; as I should have done if the lives of a hundred people had depended on my coming.  I didn’t write, because I preferred not to write lies, and if I had told the truth, I knew you would come at once.  To be sure, silence might have had the same result, but I had to risk something, and I risked that.”

“I marvel at your disinclination to lie.”

“What do you mean by saying that?” broke out Elgar, with natural warmth.

“I mean simply what I say.  Go on.”

“After all, Mallard, I don’t quite know why you should take this tone with me.  If a man falls in love, he thinks of nothing but how to gain his end; I should think even you can take that for granted.  My broken promise is a trifle in view of what caused it.”

“Again, in your view.  In mine it is by no means a trifle.  It distinguishes you from honourable men, that’s all; a point of some moment, I should think, when your character is expressly under discussion.”

“You mean, of course, that I am not worthy of Cecily.  I can’t grant any such conclusion.”

“Let us leave that aside for the present,” said Mallard.  “Will you tell me how it came to pass that you met Miss Doran and her companions at Pompeii?”

Elgar hesitated; whereupon the other added quickly: 

“If it was with Miss Doran’s anticipation, I want no details.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Their looks met.

“By chance, then, of course?” said Mallard, sourly.

Elgar spoke on an impulse, leaning forward.

“Look, I won’t lie to you.  Miriam told me they were going.  I met her that morning, when I was slinking about, and I compelled her to give me her help—­sorely against her will.  Don’t think ill of her for it, Mallard.  I frightened he! by my violent manner.  I haven’t seen her since; she can’t know what the result has been.  None of them at Pompeii suspected—­only a moment of privacy; there’s no need to say any more about it.”

Mallard mused over this revelation.  He felt inclined to scorn Elgar for making it.  It affected him curiously, and at once took a place among his imaginings of Miriam.

“You shall promise me that you won’t betray your knowledge of this,” added Reuben.  “At all events, not now.  Promise me that.  Your word is to be trusted, I know.”

“It’s very unlikely that I should think of touching on the matter to your sister.  I shall make no promise.”

“Have you seen Cecily herself?” Elgar asked, leaving the point aside in his eagerness to come to what concerned him more deeply.

“No.”

“I have waited for your permission to visit her.  Do you mean to refuse it?”

“No.  If you call to-morrow morning, you will be admitted.  Mrs. Lessingham is willing that you should see her niece in private.”