If it be true that love ever has it in its power to make or mar a man, this love that he had experienced was assuredly not of such quality.  From the first his reason had opposed it, and now that it was all over he tried to rejoice at the circumstances which had made his desire vain.  Herein he went a little beyond sincerity; yet there were arguments which, at all events, fortified his wish to see that everything was well.  It was not mere perversity that in the beginning had warned him against thinking of Cecily as a possible wife for him.  Had she betrayed the least inclination to love him, such considerations would have gone to the winds; he would have called the gods to witness that the one perfect woman on the earth was his.  But the fact of her passionate self-surrender to Reuben Elgar, did it not prove that the possibilities of her nature were quite other than those which could have assured his happiness?  To be sure, so young a girl is liable to wretched errors—­but of that he would take no account; against that he resolutely closed his mind.  From Edward Spence he heard that she was delighting herself and others in a London season.  Precisely; this justified his forethought; for this she was adapted.  But as his wife nothing of the kind would have been within her scope.  He knew him self too well.  His notion of married life was inconsistent with that kind of pleasure.  As his wife, perhaps she would have had no desire save to fit herself to him.  Possibly; but that again was a reflection not to be admitted.  He had only to deal with facts.  Sufficient that he could think of her without a pang, that he could even hope to meet her again before long.  And, best of all, no ungenerous feeling ever tempted him to wish her anything but wholly happy.

Stretched lazily in the Temple of Neptune, he once or twice looked at his watch, as though the hour in some way concerned him.  How it did was at length shown.  He heard voices approaching, and had just time to rise to his feet before there appeared figures, rising between the columns of the entrance against the background of hills.  He moved forward, a bright smile on his face.  The arrivals were Edward Spence, with his wife and Mrs. Baske.

All undemonstrative people, they shook hands much as if they had parted only a week ago.

“Done your work?” asked Spence, laying his palm on one of the pillars, with affectionate greeting.

“All I can do here.”

“Can we see it?” Eleanor inquired.

“I’ve packed it for travelling.”

Mallard took the first opportunity of looking with scrutiny at Mrs. Baske.  Alone of the three, she was changed noticeably.  Her health had so much improved that, if anything, she looked younger; certainly her face had more distinct beauty.  Reserve and conscious dignity were still its characteristics—­these were inseparable from the mould of feature; but her eyes no longer had the somewhat sullen gleam which had been wont to harm her aspect, and when she smiled it was without the hint of disdainful reticence.  Yet the smile was not frequent; her lips had an habitual melancholy, and very often she knitted her brows in an expression of troubled thought.  Whilst the others were talking with Mallard, she kept slightly in the rear, and seemed to be occupied in examining the different parts of the temple.