“They have arrived!”

“Already?” replied the other, in a tone of civil interest.

“They decided not to break the journey after Genoa.  Cecily and Mrs. Lessingham are too tired to do anything but get settled in their rooms, but Mr. Mallard has come to tell us.”

Miriam laid down her pen, and asked in the same voice as before: 

“Shall I come?”

“If you are not too busy.”  And Mrs. Spence added, with a smile, “I should think you must have a certain curiosity to see each other, after so long an acquaintance at secondhand.”

“I will come in a moment.”

Mrs. Spence left the room.  For a minute Miriam sat reflecting, then rose.  In moving towards the door she chanced to see her image in a mirror—­two of a large size adorned the room—­and it checked her step; she regarded herself gravely, and passed a smoothing hand over the dark hair above her temples.

By a corridor she reached her friends’ sitting-room, where Mrs. Spence sat in the company of two gentlemen.  The elder of these was Edward Spence.  His bearded face, studious of cast and small-featured, spoke a placid, self-commanding character; a lingering smile, and the pleasant wrinkles about his brow, told of a mind familiar with many by-ways of fancy and reflection.  His companion, a man of five-and-thirty, had a far more striking countenance.  His complexion was of the kind which used to be called adust—­burnt up with inner fires; his visage was long and somewhat harshly designed, very apt, it would seem, to the expression of hitter ironies or stern resentments, but at present bright with friendly pleasure.  He had a heavy moustache, but no beard; his hair tumbled in disorder.  To matters of costume he evidently gave little thought, for his clothes, though of the kind a gentleman would wear in travelling, had seen their best days, and the waistcoat even lacked one of its buttons; his black necktie was knotted into an indescribable shape, and the ends hung loose.

Him Mrs. Spence at once presented to her cousin as “Mr. Mallard.”  He bowed ungracefully; then, with a manner naturally frank but constrained by obvious shyness, took the hand Miriam held to him.

“We are scarcely strangers, Mr. Mallard,” she said in a self-possessed tone, regarding him with steady eyes.

“Miss Doran has spoken of you frequently on the journey,” he replied, knitting his brows into a scowl as he smiled and returned her look.  “Your illness made her very anxious.  You are much better, I hope?”

“Much, thank you.”

Allowance made for the difference of quality in their voices, Mrs. Baske and Mallard resembled each other in speech.  They had the same grave note, the same decision.

“They must be very tired after their journey,” Miriam added, seating herself.

“Miss Doran seems scarcely so at all; but Mrs. Lessingham is rather over-wearied, I’m afraid.”

“Why didn’t you break the journey at Florence or Rome?” asked Mrs. Spence.