An interruption from Spence put an end to this dangerous dialogue.  Mallard, inwardly growling at himself, resisted the temptation to further tete-a-tete, and in a short time the party went in search of a conveyance for their return.  None offered that would hold four persons; the ordinary public carriages have convenient room for two only, and a separation was necessary.  Mallard succeeded in catching Spence’s eye, and made him understand with a savage look that he was to take Cecily with him.  This arrangement was effected, and the first carriage drove off with those two, Cecily exchanging merry words with an old Italian who had rendered no kind of service, but came to beg his mancia on the strength of being able to utter a few sentences in English.

For the first time, Mallard was alone with Mrs. Baske.  Miriam had not concealed surprise at the new adjustment of companionship; she looked curiously both at Cecily and at Mallard whilst it was going on.  The first remark which the artist addressed to her, when they had been driving for a few minutes, was perhaps, she thought, an explanation of the proceeding.

“I shall meet your brother again at Pompeii to-morrow, Mrs. Baske.”

“Have you seen much of him since he came!” Miriam asked constrainedly.  She had not met Mallard since Reuben’s arrival.

“Oh yes.  We have dined together each evening.”

Between two such unloquacious persons, dialogue was naturally slow at first, but they had a long drive before them.  Miriam presently trusted herself to ask,—­

“Has he spoken to you at all of his plans—­of what he is going to do when he returns to England?”

“In general terms only.  He has literary projects.”

“Do you put any faith in them, Mr. Mallard?”

This was a sudden step towards intimacy.  As she spoke, Miriam looked at him in a way that he felt to be appealing.  He answered the look frankly.

“I think he has the power to do something worth doing.  Whether his perseverance will carry him through it, is another question.”

“He speaks to me of you in a way that—­He seems, I mean, to put a value on your friendship, and I think you may still influence him.  I am very glad he has met you here.”

“I have very little faith in the influence of one person on another, Mrs. Baske.  For ill—­yes, that is often seen; but influence of the kind you suggest is the rarest of things.”

“I’m afraid you are right.”

She retreated into herself, and, when he looked at her, he saw cold reserve once more on her countenance.  Doubtless she did not choose to let him know how deeply this question of his power concerned her.  Mallard felt something like compassion; yet not ordinary compassion either, for at the same time he had a desire to break down this reserve, and see still more of what she felt.  Curious; that evening when he dined at the villa, he had already become aware of this sort of attraction in her, an appeal to his sympathies together with the excitement of his combative spirit—­if that expressed it.