She was silent.

“That also you can’t tell me?”

She glanced at him—­or rather, let her eyes pass over his face—­ with the old suggestion of defiance.  Her firm-set lips gave no promise of answer.

Mallard rose.

“Then I must still wait.  Some day you will tell me, I think.”

He held his hand to her, then turned away; but in a moment faced her again.

“One word—­a yes or no.  Do you believe what I have told you?  Do you believe it absolutely?  Look at me, and answer.”

She flushed, and met his gaze almost as intensely as when he compelled her confession.

“Do you put absolute faith in what I have said?”

“I do.”

“That is something.”

He smiled very kindly, and so this dialogue of theirs ended.

A few days later, the Spences gathered friends about their dinner-table.  Mallard was of the invited.  The necessity of donning society’s uniform always drew many growls from him; he never felt at his ease in it, and had a suspicion that he looked ridiculous.  Indeed it suited him but ill; it disguised the true man as he appeared in his rough travelling apparel, and in the soiled and venerable attire of the studio.

As he entered the drawing-room, his first glance fell on Seaborne, who sat in conversation with Mrs. Baske.  The man of letters was just returned from Italy.  Going to shake hands with Miriam, Mallard exchanged a few words with him; then he drew aside into a convenient corner.  He noticed that Miriam’s eyes turned once or twice in his direction.  Informed that she was to be his partner in the solemn procession, he approached her when the moment arrived.  They had nothing to say to each other, until they had been seated some time then they patched together a semblance of talk, a few formalities, commonplaces, all but imbecilities.  Finding this at length intolerable, each turned to the person whom he had once before met, a pretty, bright, charming on the other side.  In Mallard’s case this was a young lady girl; without hesitation, she abandoned her companion proper, and drew the artist into lively dialogue.  It was continued afterwards in the drawing-room, until Mallard, observing that Miriam sat alone, went over to her.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, as he seated himself.

“The matter?  Nothing.”

“I thought you looked unusually well and cheerful early in the evening.  Now you are the opposite.”

“Society soon tires me.”

“So it does me.”

“You seem anything but tired.”

“I have been listening to clever and amusing talk.  Do you like Miss Harper?”

“I don’t know her well enough to like or dislike her.”

Mallard was looking at her hands, as they lay folded together; he noticed a distinct tension of the muscles, a whitening of the knuckles.

“She has just the qualities to put me in good humour.  Often when I have got stupid and bearish from loneliness, I wish I could talk to some one so happily constituted.”