“Thank you; I think the other arrangement will be better.”

“Perhaps so.  For one thing, it’s quite uncertain whether we shall keep this house.  It’s really a good deal too large for us; an unnecessary expense.  If Cecily is often to be away like this, there’s no possibility of keeping the place in order.  How the servants live, or what they do, I have no idea.  How can I be expected to look after such things?”

“But surely it is not expected of you?  I understood that Cecily had left a housekeeper.”

“Oh yes; but I have a suspicion that she does little but eat and drink.  I know the house is upside down.  It’s long enough since I had a decent meal here.  Practically I have taken to eating at restaurants.  Of course I say nothing about it to Cecily; what’s the use of bothering her?  By-the-bye, how is she?  How did you leave her?”

“Not very well, I’m afraid.”

“She never says a word about her health.  But then, practically, she never writes.  I doubt whether London suits her.  We shall have to make our head-quarters in Paris, I fancy; she was always well enough there.  Of course I can’t abandon London entirely; at all events, not till I’ve—­till my materials for the book are all ready; but it’s simple enough for me to come and take lodgings for a month now and then.”

Miriam gave an absent “Yes.”

“You don’t seem to have altered much, after all,” he resumed, looking at her with a smile.  “You talk to me just like you used to.  I expected to find you more cheerful.”

Miriam showed a forced smile, but answered nothing.

“Well, did you see much of Mallard?” he asked, throwing himself into a seat impatiently, and beginning to rap his knee with the paper-knife.

“Not very much.”

“Has he come back with you?”

“Oh no; he is still in Rome.  He said that he would most likely return when the others did.”

“How do he and Cecily get on together?”

“They seemed to be quite friendly.”

“Indeed?  Does he go about with them?”

“I don’t know.”

“But did he when you were there?”

“I think he was with them at the Vatican once.”

Elgar heard it with indifference.  He was silent for a minute or two; then, quitting his chair, asked: 

“Had you much talk with her?”

“With Cecily?  We were living together, you know.”

“Yes, but had she much to tell you?  Did she talk about how things were going with us—­what I was doing, and so on?”

He was never still.  Now he threw himself into another chair, and strummed with his fingers on the arm of it.

“She told me about your work.”

“And showed that she took very little interest in it, no doubt?”

Miriam gazed at him.

“Why do you think that?”

“Oh, that’s tolerably well understood between us.”  Again he rose. and paced with his hands in his pockets.  “It was a misfortune that Clarence died.  Now she has nothing to occupy herself with.  She doesn’t seem to have any idea of employing her time.  It was bad enough when the child was living, but since then—­”