wondered whether he would ever perceive the true issue of her self-will; and, so far from desiring to blind him, she had almost a hope that one day he might know how her life had shaped itself.  Mallard’s position in her mind was a singular one; in some such way she might have regarded a brother who had always lived remote from her, but whom she had every reason to love and reverence.  Her esteem for him was boundless; he was the ideal of the artist, and at the same time of the nobly strong man.  Had such a thing been possible, she would have sought to make him her confidant.  However it was to be explained, she felt no wound to her self-respect in supposing him cognizant of all her sufferings; rather, a solace, a source of strength.

Was it, in a measure, woman’s gratitude for love?  In the course of three years she had seen many reasons for believing that Reuben was right; that the artist had loved her, and gone through dark struggles when her fate was being decided.  That must have added tenderness to her former regard and admiration.  But she was glad that he had now recovered his liberty; the first meeting, his look and the grasp of his hand, told her at once that the trouble was long gone by.  She was glad of this, and the proof of her sincerity came when she watched the relations between him and Miriam.

On the last evening, Miriam came to her room, carrying a small portfolio, which she opened before her, disclosing three water-colours.

“You have bought them?” Cecily asked, as the other said nothing.

“No.  Mr. Mallard has given me them,” was the answer, in a voice which affected a careless pleasure.

“They are admirable.  I am delighted that you take such a present away with you.”

Cecily expected no confidences, and received none; she could only puzzle over the problem.  Why did Miriam behave with so strange a coldness?  Her new way of regarding life ought to have resulted in her laying aside that austerity.  Mrs. Lessingham hinted an opinion that the change did not go very deep; Puritanism, the result of birth and breeding, was not so easily eradicated.

Mallard stayed on in Rome, but during this next week Cecily only saw him twice—­the first time, for a quarter of an hour on the Pincio; then in the Forum.  On that second occasion he was invited to dine with them at the hotel the next day, Mr. Seaborne’s company having also been requested.  The result was a delightful evening.  Seaborne was just now busy with a certain period of Papal history; he talked of some old books he had been reading in the Vatican library, and revealed a world utterly strange to all his hearers.