“Where are you living?” she asked.

“Anywhere; nowhere.  I have no home.”

“Why don’t you make one for yourself?”

“It’s all very well for you to talk like that.  Every one doesn’t get a home so easily.—­Does old Mallard make you a good husband?”

“Need you ask that?” Miriam returned, averting her eyes, and walking slowly on.

“You have to thank me for it, Miriam, in part.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“It’s true.  It was I who first led him to think about you, and interested him in you.  We were going from Pompeii to Sorrento—­how many years ago? thirty, forty?—­and I talked about you a great deal.  I told him that I felt convinced you could be saved, if only some strong man would take you by the hand.  It led him to think about you; I am sure of it.”

Miriam had no reply to make.  They walked on.

“I didn’t come to the house,” he resumed presently, “because I thought it possible that the door might be shut in my face.  Mallard would have wished to do so.”

“He wouldn’t have welcomed you; but you were free to come in if you wished.”

“Have you thought it likely I might come some day?”

“I expected, sooner or later, to hear from you.”

He had a cane, and kept slashing with it at the green growths by his feet.  When he missed his aim at any particular object, he stopped and struck again, more fiercely.

“Does Cecily come to see you?” was his next question, uttered as if unconcernedly.

“No.”

“But you know about her?  You know where she is?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what you know, Miriam.  How is she living?”

“I had much rather not speak of her.  I don’t feel that I have any right to.”

“Why not?” he asked quickly, standing still.  “What is there to hide?  Why had you rather not speak?”

“For reasons that you understand well enough.  What is it to you how she lives?”

He searched her face, like one suspecting a studied ambiguity.  His eyes, which were a little bloodshot, grew larger and more turbid; a repulsive animalism came out in all his features.

“Do tell me what you know, Miriam,” he pleaded.  “Of course it’s nothing to me; I know that.  I have no wish to interfere with her; I promise you to do nothing of the kind; I promise solemnly!”

“You promise?” she exclaimed, not harshly, but with stern significance.  “How can you use such words?  Under what circumstances could I put faith in a promise of yours, Reuben?”

He struck violently at the trunk of a tree, and his cane broke; then he flung it away, still more passionately.

“You’re right enough.  What do I care?  I lie more often than I tell the truth.  I have a sort of pride in it.  If a man is to be a liar, let him be a thorough one.—­Do you know why I smashed the stick?  I had a devilish temptation to strike you across the face with it.  That would have been nice, wouldn’t it?”