She allowed nearly a week to pass before writing to Reuben.  When at length she sent a note, asking him either to come and see her or to make an appointment, it remained unanswered for three days; then arrived a few hurried lines, in which he said that he had been out of town, and was again on the point of leaving home, but he hoped to see her before long.  She waited, always apprehensive of ill.  What she divined of her brother’s life was inextricably mingled with the other causes of her suffering.

One afternoon she returned from walking on the Chelsea Embankment, and, on reaching the drawing-room door, which was ajar, heard a voice that made her stand still.  She delayed an instant; then entered, and found Eleanor in conversation with Mallard.

He had been in London, he said, only a day or two.  Miriam inquired whether Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily had also left Rome.  Not yet, he thought, but certainly they would be starting in a few days.  The conversation then went on between Mallard and Eleanor; Miriam, holding a cup of tea, only gave a brief reply when it was necessary.

“And now,” said Eleanor, “appoint a day for us to come and see your studio.”

“You shall appoint it yourself.”

“Then let us say to-morrow.”

In speaking, Eleanor turned interrogatively to Miriam, who, however, said nothing.  Mallard addressed her.

“May I hope that you will come, Mrs. Baske?”

His tone was, to her ear, as unsatisfying as could be; he seemed to put the question under constraint of civility.  But, of course, only one answer was possible.

So next day this visit was paid; Spence also came.  Mallard had made preparations.  A tea-service which would not have misbecome Eleanor’s own drawing-room stood in readiness.  Pictures were examined, tea was taken, artistic matters were discussed.

And Miriam went away in uttermost discontent.  She felt that henceforth her relations with Mallard were established on a perfectly conventional basis.  Her dreams were left behind in Rome.  Here was no Vatican in which to idle and hope for possible meetings.  The holiday was over.  Everything seemed of a sudden so flat and commonplace, that even her jealousy of Cecily faded for lack of sustenance.

Then she received a letter from Cecily herself, announcing return within a week.  From Reuben she had even yet heard nothing.

A few days later, as she was reading in her room between tea and dinner-time, Eleanor came in; she held an evening newspaper, and looked very grave—­more than grave.  Miriam, as soon as their eyes met, went pale with misgiving.

“There’s something here,” Eleanor began, “that I must show you.  If I said nothing about it, you would see it all the same.  Sooner or later, we should speak of it.”

“What is it?  About whom?” Miriam asked, with fearful impatience, half rising.

“Your brother.”