“Last Sunday we didn’t know whether to compassionate her or to be angry with her.  The Bradshaws are at Mrs. Gluck’s.  You know them by name, I think I There again, an interesting study, in a very different way.  Twice in the day she shut herself up with them in their rooms, and they held a dissident service.  The hours she spent here were passed in the solitude of her own room, lest she should witness our profane enjoyment of the fine weather.  Eleanor refrained from touching the piano, and at meals kept the gravest countenance, in mere kindness.  I doubt whether that is right.  It isn’t as though we were dealing with a woman whose mind is hopelessly—­immatured; she is only a girl still, and I know she has brains if she could be induced to use them.”

“Mrs. Baske has a remarkable face, it seems to me,” said Mallard.

“It enrages me to talk of the matter.”

They were now on the road which runs along the ridge of Posillipo; at a point where it is parted only by a low wall from the westward declivity, they paused and looked towards the setting sun.

“What a noise from Fuorigrotta!” murmured Spence, when he had leaned for a moment on the wall.  “It always amuses me.  Only in this part of the world could so small a place make such a clamour.”

They were looking away from Naples.  At the foot of the vine-covered hillside lay the noisy village, or suburb, named from its position at the outer end of the tunnel which the Romans pierced to make a shorter way between Naples and Puteoli; thence stretched an extensive plain, set in a deep amphitheatre of hills, and bounded by the sea.  Vineyards and maizefields, pine-trees and poplars, diversify its surface, and through the midst of it runs a long, straight road, dwindling till it reaches the shore at the hamlet of Bagnoli.  Follow the enclosing ridge to the left, to where its slope cuts athwart plain and sea and sky; there close upon the coast lies the island rock of Nisida, meeting-place of Cicero and Brutus after Caesar’s death.  Turn to the opposite quarter of the plain.  First rises the cliff of Camaldoli, where from their oak-shadowed lawn the monks look forth upon as fair a prospect as is beheld by man.  Lower hills succeed, hiding Pozzuoli and the inner curve of its bay; behind them, too, is the nook which shelters Lake Avernus; and at a little distance, by the further shore, are the ruins of Cumae, first home of the Greeks upon Italian soil.  A long promontory curves round the gulf; the dark crag at the end of it is Cape Misenum, and a little on the hither side, obscured in remoteness, lies what once was Baiae.  Beyond the promontory gleams again a blue line of sea.  The low length of Procida is its limit, and behind that, crowning the view, stands the mountain-height of Ischia.