Cecily remembered the day when she first knew that she did not wish him to be altogether like his father.  Perhaps in no other way could she have come to so clear an understanding of Reuben’s character—­ at all events, of those parts of it which had as yet revealed themselves in their wedded life.  She thought of him with an impartiality which had till of late been impossible.  And then it occurred to her:  Had the same change come over his mind concerning her?  Did he feel secret dissatisfactions?  If he had a daughter, would he say to himself that in this and that he would wish her not to resemble her mother?

About once in three months they received a letter from Miriam, addressed always to Cecily.  She was living still with the Spences, and still in Italy.  Her letters offered no explanation of this singular fact; indeed, they threw as little light as was possible on the state of her mind, so brief were they, and so closely confined to statements of events.  Still, it was clear that Miriam no longer shrank from the study of profane things.  Of Bartles she never spoke.

Mrs. Spence also wrote to Cecily, the kind of letter to be expected from her, delightful in the reading and pleasant in the memory.  But she said nothing significant concerning Miriam.

“Would they welcome us, if we went to see them?” Cecily asked, one cheerless day this winter—­it was Clarence’s birthday.

“You can’t take the child,” answered Reuben, with some discontent.

“No; I should not dare to.  And it is just as impossible to leave him with any one.  In another year, perhaps.”

Mrs. Lessingham occasionally mentioned Miriam in her letters, and always with a jest.  “I strongly suspect she is studying Greek.  Is she, perchance, the author of that delightful paper on ’Modern Paganism,’ in the current Fortnightly?  Something strange awaits us, be sure of that.”

The winter dragged to its end, and with the spring came Mrs. Lessingham herself.  Instantly the life of the Elgars underwent a complete change.  The vivacious lady from Paris saw in the twinkling of an eye how matters stood; she considered the situation perilous, and set to work most efficaciously to alter it.  With what result, you are aware.  The first incident of any importance in the new life was that which has already been related, yet something happened one day at the Academy of which it is worth while speaking.

Cecily had looked in her catalogue for the name of a certain artist, and had found it; he exhibited one picture only.  Walking on through the rooms with her husband, she came at length to the number she had in mind, and paused before it.

“Whose is that?” Reuben inquired, looking at the same picture.

“Mr. Mallard’s,” she answered, with a smile, meeting his eyes.

“Old Mallard’s?  Really?  I was wondering whether he had anything this year.”

He seemed to receive the information with genuine pleasure.  A little to Cecily’s surprise, for the name was never mentioned between them, and she had felt uneasy in uttering it.  The picture was a piece of coast-scenery in Norway, very grand, cold, desolate; not at all likely to hold the gaze of Academy visitors, but significant enough for the few who see with the imagination.