“Not, I admit, on the ground of recognized success.”

Miriam made a nervous movement, and her brows contracted.  Without looking at him, she said, in a voice which seemed rather to resent his interpretation than to be earnest in deprecating it: 

“You know, Mr. Mallard, that I meant nothing of the kind.”

“Yet I could have understood you, if you had.  Naturally you must wonder a little at a man’s passing his life as I do.  You interpret life absolutely; it is your belief that it can have only one meaning, the same for all, involving certain duties of which there can be no question, and admitting certain relaxations which have endured the moral test.  A man may not fritter away the years that are granted him; and that is what I seem to you to be doing, at best.”

“Why should you suppose that I take upon myself to judge you?”

“Forgive me; I think it is one result of your mental habits that you judge all who differ from you.”

This time she clearly was resolved to make no reply.  They were passing through Pozzuoli, and she appeared to forget the discussion in looking about her.  Mallard watched her, but she showed no consciousness of his gaze.

“Even if the world recognized me as an artist of distinction,” he resumed, “you would still regard me as doubtfully employed.  Art does not seem to you an end of sufficient gravity.  Probably you had rather there were no such thing, if it were practicable.”

“There is surely a great responsibility on any one who makes it the end of life.”

This was milder again, and just when he had anticipated the opposite.

“A responsibility to himself, yes.  Well, when I say that I believe this course is the highest I can follow, I mean that I believe it employs all my best natural powers as no other would.  As for highest in the absolute sense, that is a different matter.  Possibly the life of a hospital nurse, of a sister of mercy—­something of that kind—­comes nearest to the ideal.”

She glanced at him, evidently in the same kind of doubt about his meaning as he had recently felt about hers.

“Why should you speak contemptuously of such people?”

“Contemptuously?  I speak sincerely.  In a world where pain is the most obvious fact, the task of mercy must surely take precedence of most others.”

“I am surprised to hear you say this.”

It was spoken in the tone most characteristic of her, that of a proud condescension.

“Why, Mrs. Baske?”

She hesitated a little, but made answer: 

“I don’t mean that I think you unfeeling, but your interests seem to be so far from such simple things.”

“True.”

Again a long silence.  The carriage was descending the road from Pozzuoli; it approached the sea-shore, where the gentle breakers were beginning to be tinged with evening light.  Cecily looked back and waved her hand.