“Well, well; go and talk to the poor girl, and see if you can do anything.  I wish she were an artist, of whatever kind; then it wouldn’t matter much.  A woman who sings, or plays, or writes, or paints, can live a free life.  But a woman who is nothing but a woman, what the deuce is to become of her in this position?  What would become of you, if I found you in my way, and bade you go about your business?”

“We are not far from the Thames,” she answered, looking at him with the fire-glow in her loving eyes.

“Oh, you!” he muttered, with show of contempt.  “But other women have more spirit.  They get over their foolish love, and then find that life in earnest is just beginning.”

“I shall never get over it.”

“Pooh!—­How long to dinner, Miriam?”

Miriam went to see her sister-in-law, and repeated the visit at intervals during the next few months; but Cecily would not come to Roehampton.  Neither would she accept the invitations of the Spences, though Eleanor was with her frequently, and became her nearest friend.  She seemed quite content with the society of Irene and Mrs. Delph; her health visibly improved, and as spring drew near there was a brightening in her face that told of thoughts in sympathy with the new-born hope of earth.

The Mallards were seldom in town.  Excepting the house at Chelsea, their visits were only to two or three painters, who lived much as Mallard had done before his marriage.  In these studios Miriam at first inspired a little awe; but as her understanding of the art-world increased, she adapted herself to its habits in so far as she could respect them, and where she could not, the restraint of her presence was recognized as an influence towards better things.

At the Spences’, one day in April, they met Seaborne.  They had heard of his being in London again (after a year mostly spent in Paris), but had not as yet seen him.  He was invited to visit them, and promised to do so before long.  A month or more passed, however, and the promise remained unfulfilled.  At Chelsea the same report was made of him; he seemed to be living in seclusion.

In mid-May, as Miriam was walking by herself at a little distance from home, she was overtaken by a man who had followed her over the heath.  When the step paused at her side, she turned and saw Reuben.

“Will you speak to me?” he said.

“Why not, Reuben?”

She gave him her hand.

“That is kinder than I hoped to find you.  But I see how changed you are.  You are so happy that you can afford to be indulgent to a poor devil.”

“Why have you made yourself a poor devil!”

“Why, why, why!  Pooh!  Why is anything as it is?  Why are you what you are, after being what you were?”

It pained her to look at him.  At length she discerned unmistakably the fatal stamp of degradation.  When he came to her two years ago, his face was yet unbranded; now the darkening spirit declared itself.  Even his clothing told the same tale, in spite of its being such as he had always worn.