She added the last sentence merrily, meeting Miriam’s look with the frankest eyes.

“Does Mrs. Lessingham hold the same opinion?” Miriam inquired.

“Oh yes!  Aunt, of course, knows far more about art than I do, and she thinks very highly indeed of Mr. Mallard.  Not long ago she met M. Lambert at a friend’s house in Paris—­the French critic who has just been writing about English landscape—­and he mentioned Mr. Mallard with great respect.  That was splendid, wasn’t it?”

She spoke with joyous spiritedness.  However modern, Cecily, it was clear, had caught nothing of the disease of pococurantism.  Into whatever pleased her or enlisted her sympathies, she threw all the glad energies of her being.  The scornful remark on the Royal Academy was, one could see, not so much a mere echo of advanced opinion, as a piece of championship in a friend’s cause.  The respect with which she mentioned the name of the French critic, her exultation in his dictum, were notes of a youthful idealism which interpreted the world nobly, and took its stand on generous beliefs.

“Mr. Mallard will help you to see Naples, no doubt,” said Miriam.

“Indeed, I wish he would.  But he distinctly told us that he has no time.  He is going to Amalfi in a few days, to work.  I begged him at least to go to Pompeii with us, but he frowned—­as he so often does—­and seemed unwilling to be persuaded; so I said no more.  There again, I feel sure he was afraid of being annoyed by trifling talk in such places.  But one mustn’t judge an artist like other men.  To be sure, anything I could say or think would be trivial compared with what is in his mind.”

“But isn’t it rather discourteous?” Miriam observed impartially.

“Oh, I could never think of it in that way!  An artist is privileged; he must defend his time and his sensibilities.  The common terms of society have no application to him.  Don’t you feel that, Miriam?”

“I know so little of art and artists.  But such a claim seems to me very strange.”

Cecily laughed.

“This is one of a thousand things we will talk about.  Art is the grandest thing in the world; it means everything that is strong and beautiful—­statues, pictures, poetry, music.  How could one live without art?  The artist is born a prince among men.  What has he to do with the rules by which common people must direct their lives?  Before long, you will feel this as deeply as I do, Miriam.  We are in Italy, Italy!”

“Shall we go back to the others?” Miriam suggested, in a voice which contrasted curiously with that exultant cry.

“Yes; it is time.”

Cecily’s eyes fell on the plans of the chapel, which were still lying open.

“What is this?” she asked.  “Something in Naples?  Oh no!”

“It’s nothing,” said Miriam, carelessly.  “Come, Cecily.”

The visitors took their leave just as the midday cannon boomed from Sant’ Elmo.  They had promised to come and dine in a day or two.  After their departure, Miriam showed as little disposition to make comments as she had to indulge in expectation before their arrival.  Eleanor and her husband put less restraint upon themselves.