“I saw Florence and Rome in ’76,” he replied to a question from Mrs. Lessingham.  “In Rome my travelling companion fell ill, and we returned without coming further south.  It is wrong, however, to say that I saw anything; my mind was in far too crude a state to direct my eyes to any purpose.  I stared about me a good deal, and got some notions of topography, and there the matter ended for the time.”

“The benefit came with subsequent reflection, no doubt,” said Mrs. Lessingham, who found one of her greatest pleasures in listening to the talk of young men with brains.  Whenever it was possible, she gathered such individuals about her and encouraged them to discourse of themselves, generally quite as much to their satisfaction as to her own.  Already she had invited with some success the confidence of Mr. Clifford Marsh, who proved interesting, but not unfathomable; he belonged to a class with which she was tolerably familiar.  Reuben Elgar, she perceived at once, was not without characteristics linking him to that same group of the new generation, but it seemed probable that its confines were too narrow for him.  There was comparatively little affectation in his manner, and none in his aspect; his voice rang with a sincerity which claimed serious audience, and his eyes had something more than surface gleamings.  Possibly he belonged to the unclassed and the unclassable, in which case the interest attaching to him was of the highest kind.

“Subsequent reflection,” returned Elgar, “has, at all events, enabled me to see myself as I then was; and I suppose self-knowledge is the best result of travel.”

“If one agrees that self-knowledge is ever a good at all,” said the speculative lady, with her impartial smile.

“To be sure.”  Elgar looked keenly at her, probing the significance of the remark.  “The happy human being will make each stage of his journey a phase of more or less sensual enjoyment, delightful at the time and valuable in memory.  The excursion will be his life in little.  I envy him, but I can’t imitate him.”

“Why envy him?” asked Eleanor.

“Because he is happy; surely a sufficient ground.”

“Yet you give the preference to self-knowledge.”

“Yes, I do.  Because in that direction my own nature tends to develop itself.  But I envy every lower thing in creation.  I won’t pretend to say how it is with other people who are forced along an upward path; in my own case every step is made with a groan, and why shouldn’t I confess it?”

“To do so enhances the merit of progress,” observed Mrs. Lessingham, mischievously.

“Merit?  I know nothing of merit.  I spoke of myself being forced upwards.  If ever I feel that I am slipping back, I shall state it with just as little admission of shame.”

Miriam heard this modern dialogue with grave features.  At Bartles, such talk would have qualified the talker for social excommunication, and every other pain and penalty Bartles had in its power to inflict.  She observed that Cecily’s interest increased.  The girl listened frankly; no sense of anything improper appeared in her visage.  Nay, she was about to interpose a remark.