“Yes; I found him after a good deal of going about,” replied the other, glad to have done with artificial disregard of the subject.

“Does he know that they are going to Capri!”

“He evidently hadn’t heard of it.  I suppose he’ll have a note from Mrs. Lessingham this evening or to-morrow.”

Miriam waited a little, then asked: 

“What is his own wish?  What does he think ought to be arranged?”

“Just what Cecily told you,” interposed Eleanor, before her husband could reply.

“I thought he might have spoken more freely to Edward.”

“Well,” answered Spence, “he is strongly of opinion that Reuben ought to go to England very soon.  But I suppose Cecily told you that as well?”

“She seemed to be willing.  But why doesn’t Mr. Mallard speak to her himself?”

“Mallard isn’t exactly the man for this delicate business,” said Spence, smiling.

Miriam glanced from him to Eleanor.  She would have said no more, had it been in her power to keep silence; but an involuntary persistence, the same in kind as that often manifested by questioning children—­an impulsive feeling that the next query must elicit something which would satisfy a vague desire, obliged her to speak again.

“Is it his intention not to see Cecily at all?”

“I think very likely it is, Miriam,” answered Eleanor, when her husband showed that he left her to do so.

“I understand.”

To which remark Eleanor, when Miriam was gone, attached the interrogative, “I wonder whether she does?” The Spences did not feel it incumbent upon them to direct her in the matter; it were just as well if she followed a mistaken clue.

Two days later, Mrs. Lessingham and her niece, accompanied by Reuben Elgar, departed for Capri.  The day after that, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw in very deed said good-bye to Naples and travelled northwards.  They purposed spending Christmas in Rome, and thence by quicker stages they would return to the land of civilization.  Spence went to the station to see them off, and at lunch, after speaking of this and other things, he said to Miriam: 

“Mallard wishes to see you.  I told him I thought five o’clock this afternoon would be a convenient time.”

Miriam assented, but not without betraying surprise and uneasiness.  Subsequently she just mentioned to Eleanor that she would receive the visitor in her own sitting-room.  There, as five o’clock drew near, she waited in painful agitation.  What it was Mallard’s purpose to say to her she could not with any degree of certainty conjecture.  Had Reuben told him of the part she had played in connection with that eventful day at Pompeii?  What would be his tone?  Did he come to ask for particulars concerning her brother?  Intend what he might, she dreaded the interview.  And yet—­fact of which she made no secret to herself—­she had rather he came than not.  When it was a few minutes past five, and no foot had yet sounded in the corridor, all other feeling was lost in the misgiving that he might have changed his mind.  Perhaps he had decided to write instead, and her heart sank at the thought.  She felt an overpowering curiosity as to the way in which this event had affected the strange man.  Reports were no satisfaction to her; she desired to see him and hear him speak.