There existed a Mr. Denyer, but this gentleman was very seldom indeed in the bosom of his family.  Letters—­and remittances—­ came from him from the most surprising quarters of the globe.  His profession was that of speculator at large, and, with small encouragement of any kind, he toiled unceasingly to support his wife and daughters in their elegant leisure.  At one time he was eagerly engaged in a project for making starch from potatoes in the south of Ireland.  When this failed, he utilized a knowledge of Spanish—­ casually picked up, like all his acquirements—­and was next heard of at Veer Cruz, where he dealt in cochineal, indigo, sarsaparilla, and logwood.  Yellow fever interfered with his activity, and after a brief sojourn with his family in the United States, where they had joined him with the idea of making a definite settlement, he heard of something promising in Egypt, and thither repaired.  A spare, vivacious, pathetically sanguine man, always speaking of the day when he would “settle down” in enjoyment of a moderate fortune, and most obviously doomed never to settle at all, save in the final home of mortality.

Mrs. Lessingham and her niece entered the room.  On Cecily, as usual, all eyes were more or less openly directed.  Her evening dress was simple—­though with the simplicity not to be commanded by every one who wills—­and her demeanour very far from exacting general homage; but her birthright of distinction could not be laid aside, and the suave Mrs. Gluck was not singular in recognizing that here was such a guest as did not every day grace her pension.  Barbara and Madeline Denyer never looked at her without secret pangs.  In appearance, however, they were very friendly, and Cecily had met their overtures from the first with the simple goodwill natural to her.  She went and seated herself by Madeline, who had on her lap a little portfolio.

“These are the drawings of which I spoke,” said Madeline, half opening the portfolio.

“Mr. Marsh’s?  Oh, I shall be glad to see them!”

“Of course, we ought to have daylight, but we’ll look at them again to-morrow.  You can form an idea of their character.”

They were small water-colours, the work—­as each declared in fantastic signature—­of one Clifford Marsh, spoken of by the Denyers, and by Madeline in particular, as a personal friend.  He was expected to arrive any day in Naples.  The subjects, Cecily had been informed, were natural scenery; the style, impressionist.  Impressionism was no novel term to Cecily, and in Paris she had had her attention intelligently directed to good work in that kind; she knew, of course, that, like every other style, it must be judged with reference to its success in achieving the end proposed.  But the first glance at the first of Mr. Marsh’s productions perplexed her.  A study on the Roman Campagna, said Madeline.  It might just as well, for all Cecily could determine, have been a study of cloud-forms, or of a storm at sea, or of anything. or of nothing; nor did there seem to be any cogent reason why it should be looked at one way up rather than the other.  Was this genius, or impudence?