Baske.  To a great extent Cecily did, in fact, inhabit an ideal world.  She was ready to accept the noble as the natural.  Untroubled herself, she could contemplate without scepticism the image of an artist finding his bliss in solitary toil.  This was the ground of the respect she had for him; disturb this idea, and he became to her quite another man—­one less interesting, and, it might be, less lovable in either sense of the word.

Spence maintained a conversation with Miriam, chiefly referring to the characteristics of the scene about them; he ignored her peculiarities, and talked as though everything must necessarily give her pleasure.  Her face proved that at all events the physical influences of this day in the open air were beneficial.  The soft breeze had brought a touch of health to her cheek, and languid inattention no longer marked her gaze at sea and shore; she was often absent, but never listless.  When she spoke, her voice was subdued and grave; it always caused Mallard to glance in her direction.

At Baiae they dismissed the boat, purposing to drive back to Naples.  In their ramble among the ruins, Mallard did his best to be at ease and seem to share Cecily’s happiness; in any case, it was better to talk of the Romans than of personal concerns.  When in after-time he recalled this day, it seemed to him that he had himself been well contented; it dwelt in his memory with a sunny glow.  He saw Cecily’s unsurpassable grace as she walked beside him, and her look of winning candour turned to him so often, and he fancied that it had given him pleasure to be with her.  And pleasure there was, no doubt, but inextricably blended with complex miseries.  To Cecily his mood appeared more gracious than she had ever known it; he did not disdain to converse on topics which presupposed some knowledge on her part, and there was something of unusual gentleness in his tone which she liked.

“Some day,” she said, “we shall talk of Baiae in London, in a November fog.”

“I hope not.”

“But such contrasts help one to get the most out of life,” she rejoined, laughing; “At all events, when some one happens to speak to me of Mr. Mallard’s pictures, I shall win credit by casually mentioning that I was at Baiae in his company in such-and-such a year.”

“You mean, when I have painted my last!”

“No, no!  It would be no pleasure to me to anticipate that time.”

“But natural, in talking with a veteran.”

It was against his better purpose that he let fall these words; they contained almost a hint of his hidden self, and he had not yet allowed anything of the kind to escape him.  But the moment proved too strong.

“A veteran who fortunately gives no sign of turning grey,” replied Cecily, glancing at his hair.