“I suppose,” he said, “the people you are staying with have much the same horror of my name as you have.”

“You speak as loosely as you think.  The Spences can scarcely respect you.”

“You purpose remaining with them all the winter?”

“It is quite uncertain.  With what intentions have you come here?  Do you wish me to speak of you to the Spences or not?”

He still kept looking about the room.  Perhaps upon him too the baleful southern wind was exercising its influence, for he sat listlessly when he was not speaking, and had a weary look.

“You may speak of me or not, as you like.  I don’t see that anything’s to be gained by my meeting them; but I’ll do just as you please.”

“You mean to stay in Naples?”

“A short time.  I’ve never been here before, and, as I said, I may as well be here as anywhere else.”

“When did you last see Mr. Mallard?”

“Mallard?  Why, what makes you speak of him?”

“You made his acquaintance, I think, not long after you last saw me.”

“Ha!  I understand.  That was why he sought me out.  You and your friends sent him to me as a companion likely to ‘do me good.’”

“I knew nothing of Mr. Mallard then—­nothing personally.  But be doesn’t seem to be the kind of man whose interest you would resent.”

“Then you know him?” Reuben asked, in a tone of some pleasure.

“He is in Naples at present.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.  Mallard is an excellent fellow, in his own way, Somehow I’ve lost sight of him for a long time.  He’s painting here, I suppose?  Where can I find him?”

“I don’t know his address, but I can at once get it for you.  You are sure that he will welcome you?”

“Why not?  Have you spoken to him about me?”

“No,” Miriam replied distantly.

“Why shouldn’t he welcome me, then?  We were very good friends.  Do you attribute to him such judgments as your own?”

His way of speaking was subject to abrupt changes.  When, as in this instance, he broke forth impulsively, there was a corresponding gleam in his fine eyes and a nervous tension in all his frame.  His voice had an extraordinary power of conveying scornful passion; at such moments he seemed to reveal a profound and strong nature.

“I am very slightly acquainted with Mr. Mallard,” Miriam answered, with the cold austerity which was the counterpart in her of Reuben’s fiery impulsiveness, “but I understand that he is considered trustworthy and honourable by people of like character.”

Elgar rose from his chair, and in doing so all but flung it down.

“Trustworthy and honourable!  Why, so is many a greengrocer.  How the artist would be flattered to hear this estimate of his personality!  The honourable Mallard!  I must tell him that.”

“You will not dare to repeat words from my lips!” exclaimed Miriam, sternly.  “You have sunk lower even than I thought.”