A walk of ten minutes, and there shone light from windows.  The lad ran forward and turned in at the gate of a garden; Mallard followed, and approached some persons who were standing at an open door.  He speedily made arrangements for his night’s lodging, saw his room, and went to the quarter of the inn where dinner was already in progress.  This was a building to itself, at one side of the garden.  Through the doorway he stepped immediately into a low-roofed hall, where a number of persons sat at table.  Pillars supported the ceiling in the middle, and the walls were in several places painted with heads or landscapes, the work of artists who had made their abode here; one or two cases with glass doors showed relics of Pompeii.

Elgar was one of the company.  When he became aware of Mallard’s arrival, he stood up with a cry of “All hail!” and pointed to a seat near him.

“I began to be afraid you wouldn’t come this evening.  Try the risotto; it’s excellent.  Ye gods! what an appetite I had when I sat down!  To-day have I ascended Vesuvius.  How many bottles of wine I drank between starting and returning I cannot compute; I never knew before what it was to be athirst.  Why, their vino di Vesuvio is for all the world like cider; I thought at first I was being swindled—­ not an impossible thing in these regions.  I must tell you a story about a party of Americans I encountered at Bosco Reale.”

The guests numbered seven or eight; with one exception besides Elgar, they were Germans, all artists of one kind or another, fellows of genial appearance, loud in vivacious talk.  The exception was a young Englishman, somewhat oddly dressed, and with a great quantity of auburn hair that rolled forward upon his distinguished brow.  At a certain pension on the Mergellina he was well known.  He sat opposite Elgar, and had been in conversation with him.

Mallard cared little what he ate, and ate little of any thing.  Neither was he in the mood for talk; but Elgar, who had finished his solid meal, and now amused himself with grapes (in two forms), spared him the necessity of anything but an occasional monosyllable.  The young man was elated, and grew more so as he proceeded with his dessert; his cheeks were deeply flushed; his eyes gleamed magnificently.

In the meantime Clifford Marsh had joined in conversation with the Germans; his use of their tongue was far from idiomatic, but by sheer determination to force a way through linguistic obstacles, he talked with a haphazard fluency which was amusing enough.  No false modesty imposed a check upon his eloquence.  It was to the general table that he addressed himself on the topic that had arisen; in an English dress his speech ran somewhat as follows:—­

“Gentlemen, allow me to say that I have absolutely no faith in the future of which you speak!  It is my opinion that democracy is the fatal enemy of art.  How can you speak of ancient and mediaeval states?  Neither in Greece nor in Italy was there ever what we understand by a democracy.”