“What do you mean?” she asked irritably.

“Does he speak like a man who is disinterested?”

“It is not my business to discuss Mr. Mallard’s motives.”

“It certainly is mine—­and yours too, if you care anything for me.”

They reached the hotel without further debate of this subject.  It was not much after one o’clock; all lunched together in private, talking only of Capri.  Later they walked to the villa of Tiberius.  Elgar kept up an appearance of light-hearted enjoyment; Cecily was less able to disguise her preoccupation.  Mrs. Lessingham seemed to have accepted the inevitable.  Her first annoyance having passed, she was submitting to that personal charm in Elgar which all women sooner or later confessed; her behaviour to him was indulgent, and marked only with a very gentle reserve when he talked too much paradox.

Elgar went to his hotel for dinner, and left the others to themselves through the evening.  The next day was given to. wandering about the island.  On the return at sunset, Miriam and Reuben had a long talk together, in which it was made manifest that the “plans” were just as vague as ever.  Reuben had revived the mention of literary work, that was all, and proposed to make his head-quarters in Paris, in order that he might not be too far from Cecily, who would, it was presumed, remain on the Continent.  This evening he dined with the ladies.  Afterwards Cecily played.  When Miriam and Mrs. Lessingham chanced to be conversing together, Elgar stepped up to the piano, and murmured: 

“Will you come out into the garden for a few minutes?  There’s a full moon; it’s magnificent.”

Cecily let her fingers idle upon the keys, then rose and went to where her aunt was sitting.  There was an exchange of words in a low tone, and she left the room.  Elgar at once approached Mrs. Lessingham to take leave of her.

“The Grotta Azzurra to-morrow,” he said gaily.  “Perhaps you won’t care to go again?  My grave sister will make a very proper chaperon.”

“Let us discuss that when to-morrow comes.  Please to limit your moon-gazing to five minutes.”

“At the utmost.”

From the hotel garden opened a clear prospect towards Naples, which lay as a long track of lights beyond the expanse of deep blue.  The coast was distinctly outlined against the far sky glowed intermittently the fire of Vesuvius.  Above the trees of the garden shone white crags, unsubstantial, unearthly in the divine moonlight.  There was no sound, yet to intense listening the air became full of sea-music.  It was the night of Homer, the island-charm of the Odyssey.

“Answer me quickly, Cecily; we have only a few minutes, and I want to say a great deal.  You have talked with Miriam?”

“Yes.”

“You know that she repeats what Mallard has instructed her to say?  Their one object now is to get me at a distance from you.  You see how your aunt has changed—­in appearance; her policy is to make me think that she will be my friend when I am away.  I can speak with certainty after observing her for so long; in reality she is as firm against me as ever.  Don’t you notice, too, something strange in Miriam’s behaviour?”