Mr. Musselwhite’s place at table was next to Barbara Denyer.  So long as Miss Denyer was new, or comparatively new, to her neighbour’s reminiscences, all went well between them.  Barbara condescended to show interest in the place in Lincolnshire; she put pertinent questions; she smiled or looked appropriately serious in listening to the three stories.  But this could not go on indefinitely, and for more than a week now conversation between the two had been a trying matter.  For Mr. Musselwhite to sustain a dialogue on such topics as Barbara had made her own was impossible, and he had no faculty even for the commonest kind of impersonal talk.  He devoted himself to his dinner in amiable silence, enjoying the consciousness that nearly an hour of occupation was before him, and that bed-time lay at no hopeless distance.

Moreover, there was a boy—­yet it is doubtful whether he should be so described; for, though he numbered rather less than sixteen years, experience had already made him blase.  He sat beside his mother, a Mrs. Strangwich.  For Master Strangwich the ordinary sources of youthful satisfaction did not exist; he talked with the mature on terms of something more than equality, and always gave them the impression that they had still much to learn.  This objectionable youth had long since been everywhere and seen everything.  The naivete of finding pleasure in novel circumstances moved him to a pitying surprise.  Speak of the glories of the Bay of Naples, and he would remark, with hands in pockets and head thrown back, that he thought a good deal more of the Golden Horn.  If climate came up for discussion, he gave an impartial vote, based on much personal observation, in favour of Southern California.  His parents belonged to the race of modern nomads, those curious beings who are reviving an early stage of civilization as an ingenious expedient for employing money and time which they have not intelligence enough to spend in a settled habitat.  It was already noticed in the pension that Master Strangwich paid somewhat marked attentions to Madeline Denyer; there was no knowing what might come about if their acquaintance should be prolonged for a few weeks.

But Madeline had at present something else to think about than the condescending favour of Master Strangwich.  As the guests entered the dining-room, Mrs. Gluck informed Mrs. Denyer that the English artist who was looked for had just arrived, and would in a few minutes join the company.  “Mr. Marsh is here,” said Mrs. Denyer aloud to her daughters, in a tone of no particular satisfaction.  Madeline glanced at Miss Doran, who, however, did not seem to have heard the remark.