Miriam smiled and shook her head.

“Tell me about things at home.  Is Miss Baske well?”

“Quite well.  I have had two letters from her since I was here.  She wished me to give you her love.”

“I will write to her.  And is old Don still alive?”

“Yes, but very feeble, poor old fellow.  He forgets even to be angry with the baker’s boy.”

Cecily laughed with a moved playfulness.

“He has forgotten me.  I don’t like to be forgotten by any one who ever cared for me.”

There was a pause.  They came back into the room, and Cecily, with a look of hesitation, asked quietly,—­

“Have you heard of late from Reuben?”

Miriam, with averted eyes, answered simply, “No.”  Again there was silence, until Cecily, moving about the room, came to the “St. Cecilia.”

“So my patron saint is always before you.  I am glad of that.  Where is the original of this picture, Miriam?  I forget.”

“I never knew.”

“Oh, I wished to speak to you of Mr. Mallard.  You met him yesterday.  Had you much conversation?”

“A good deal.  He dined with us.”

“Did he?  I thought it possible.  And do you like him?”

“I couldn’t say until I knew him better.”

“It isn’t easy to know him, I think,” said Cecily, in a reflective and perfectly natural tone, smiling thoughtfully.  “But he is a very interesting man, and I wish he would be more friendly with me.  I tried hard to win his confidence on the journey from Genoa, but I didn’t seem to have much success.  I fancy”—­she laughed—­“that he is still in the habit of regarding me as a little girl, who wouldn’t quite understand him if he spoke of serious things.  When I wished to talk of his painting, he would only joke.  That annoyed me a little, and I tried to let him see that it did, with the result that he refused to speak of anything for a long time.”

“What does Mr. Mallard paint?” Miriam asked, half absently.

“Landscape,” was the reply, given with veiled surprise.  “Did you never see anything of his?”

“I remember; the Bradshaws have a picture by him in their dining-room.  They showed it me when I was last in Manchester.  I’m afraid I looked at it very inattentively, for it has never re-entered my mind from that day to this.  But I was ill at the time.”

“His pictures are neglected,” said Cecily, “but people who understand them say they have great value.  If he has anything accepted by the Academy, it is sure to be hung out of sight.  I think he is wrong to exhibit there at all.  Academies are foolish things, and always give most encouragement to the men who are worth least.  When there is talk of such subjects, I never lose an opportunity of mentioning Mr. Mallard’s name, and telling all I can about his work.  Some day I shall, perhaps, be able to help him.  I will insist on every friend of mine who buys pictures at all possessing at least one of Mr. Mallard’s; then, perhaps, he will condescend to talk with me of serious things.”