“I hadn’t thought of going any further just now,” said Elgar, who seemed to have a difficulty in simply declining the invitation, as he wished to do.

“What should you do, then?”

“Spend another day here, I think,—­I’ve only had a few hours among the ruins, you know,—­and then go back to Naples.”

“What to do there?” asked Mallard, bluntly.

“Give a little more time to the museum, and see more of the surroundings.”

“Better come on with me.  I shall be glad of your company.”

It was said with decision, but scarcely with heartiness.  Elgar looked about him vaguely.

“To tell you the truth,” he said at last, “I don’t care to incur much expense.”

“The expenses of what I propose are trivial.”

“My traps are at Naples, and I have kept the room there.  No, I don’t see my way to it, Mallard.”

“All right.”

The artist turned away.  He walked about the road for ten minutes.—­ Very well; then he too would return to Naples.  Why?  What was altered?  Even if Elgar accompanied him to Amalfi, it would only be for a few days; there was no preventing the fellow’s eventual return—­his visits to the villa, perhaps to Mrs. Gluck’s.  Again imbecile and insensate What did it all matter?

He stopped short.  He would sit down and write a letter to Mrs. Baske.—­A pretty complication, that!  What grounds for such a letter as he meditated?

The devil!  Had he not a stronger will than Reuben Elgar?  If he wished to carry a point with such a weakling, was he going to let himself be thwarted?  Grant it was help only for a few days, no matter; Elgar should go with him.

He walked back to the garden.  Good; there the fellow loitered, obviously irresolute.

“Elgar, you’d better come, after all,” he said, with a grim smile.  “I want to have some talk with you.  Let us pay our shot, and walk on to the station.”

“What kind of talk, Mallard?”

“Various.  Get whatever you have to carry; I’ll see to the bill.”

“But how can I go on without a shirt?”

“I have shirts in abundance.  A truce to your obstacles.  March!”

And before very long they were side by side in the vehicle, speeding along the level road towards Castellammare and the mountains.  This exertion of native energy had been beneficial to Mallard’s temper; he talked almost genially.  Elgar, too, had subdued his restiveness, and began to look forward with pleasure to the expedition.

“I only wish this wind would fall!” he exclaimed.  “It’s cold, and I hate a wind of any kind.”

“Hate a wind?  You’re effeminate; you’re a boulevardier.  It would do you good to be pitched in a gale about the coast of Skye.  A fellow of your temperament has no business in these relaxing latitudes.  You want tonics.”

“Too true, old man.  I know myself at least as well as you know me.”