“Yes, I am afraid that is true.  But it may be useful, after all.  Here and there he will hit the mark.”

Cecily was tentative.  She saw Miriam’s brows work uneasily.

“Perhaps so,” was the reply.  “But I know quite well that such a book would have been no use to me when I stood in need of the kind of help you mean.”

“To be sure; it is for people who have already helped themselves,” said Cecily, in a jesting tone.

Miriam turned to another subject, and very soon said good night.  Reflecting on the conversation, she was annoyed with herself for having been led by her familiar weakness to admit that she had changed her way of thinking.  Certainly she had no intention of disguising the fact, but this explicit confession had seemed to make her Cecily’s inferior; she was like a school-girl claiming recognition of progress.

The next morning Mallard called.  He came into a room where Mrs. Lessingham, Eleanor, and Miriam were waiting for Cecily to join them, that all might go out together.  Miriam had never seen him behave with such ease of manner.  He was in good spirits, and talked with a facility most unusual in him.  Mrs. Lessingham said she would go and see why Cecily delayed; Eleanor also made an excuse for leaving the room.  But Miriam remained, standing by the window and looking into the street; Mallard stood near her, but did not speak.  The silence lasted for a minute or two; then Cecily entered, and at once the artist greeted her with warm friendliness.  Miriam had turned, but did not regard the pair directly; her eye caught their reflection in a mirror, and she watched them closely without seeming to do so.  Cecily had made her appearance with a face of pleased anticipation; she looked for the first moment with much earnestness at her old friend, and when she spoke to him it was with the unmistakable accent of emotion.  Mallard was gentle, reverent; he held her hand a little longer than was necessary, but his eyes quickly fell from her countenance.

“Your husband is well?” he asked in a full, steady voice.

They seated themselves, and Miriam again turned to the window.  Cecily’s voice made a jarring upon her ear; it was so much sweeter and more youthful, so much more like the voice of Cecily Doran, than when it addressed other people.  Mallard, too, continued in a soft, pleasant tone, quite different from his usual speech; Miriam thrilled with irritation as she heard him.

“They have told me of the picture you painted at Paestum.  When may Mrs. Lessingham and I come and see it?”

“I haven’t a place in which I could receive you.  I’ll bring the thing here, whenever you like.”

Miriam moved.  She wished to leave the room, but could not decide herself to do so.  In the same moment Mallard glanced round at her.  She interpreted his look as one of impatience, and at once said to Cecily: 

“I think I’ll change my mind, and write some letters this morning.  Perhaps you could persuade Mr. Mallard to take my place for the drive.”