Over all, the hues of an autumn evening in Campania.  From behind a bulk of cloud, here and there tossed by high wind currents into fantastic shapes, sprang rays of fire, burning to the zenith.  Between the sea-beach at Bagnoli and the summit of Ischia, tract followed upon tract of colour that each moment underwent a subtle change, darkening here, there fading into exquisite transparencies of distance, till by degrees the islands lost projection and became mere films against the declining day.  The plain was ruddy with dead vine-leaves, and golden with the decaying foliage of the poplars; Camaldoli and its neighbour heights stood gorgeously enrobed.  In itself, a picture so beautiful that the eye wearied with delight; in its memories, a source of solemn joy, inexhaustible for ever.

“I suppose,” said Mallard, in the undertone of reflection, “the pagan associations of Naples are a great obstacle to Mrs. Baske’s enjoyment of the scenery.”

“She admits that.”

“By-the-bye, what are likely to be the relations between her and Miss Doran?”

“I have wondered.  They seem to keep on terms of easy correspondence.  But doesn’t Cecily herself throw any light on that point?”

Mallard made a pause before answering.

“You must remember that I know very little of her.  I have never spoken more intimately with her than you yourself have.  Naturally, since she has ceased to be a child, I have kept my distance.  In fact, I shall be heartily glad when the next three years are over, and we can shake hands with a definite good-bye.”

“What irritates you?” inquired Spence, with a smile which recognized a phase of his friend’s character.

“The fact of my position.  A nice thing for a fellow like me to have charge of a fortune!  It oppresses me—­the sense of responsibility; I want to get the weight off my shoulders.  What the deuce did her father mean by burdening me in this way?”

“He foresaw nothing of the kind,” said Spence, amused.  “Only the unlikely event of Trench’s death left you sole trustee.  If Doran purposed anything at all—­why, who knows what it may have been?”

Mallard refused to meet the other’s look; his eyes were fixed on the horizon.

“All the same, the event was possible, and he should have chosen another man of business.  It’s worse than being rich on my own account.  I have dreams of a national repudiation of debt; I imagine dock-companies failing and banks stopping payment.  It disturbs my work; I am tired of it.  Why can’t I transfer the affair to some trustworthy and competent person; yourself, for instance?  Why didn’t Doran select you, to begin with—­the natural man to associate with Trench?”

“Who never opened a book save his ledger; who was the model of a reputable dealer in calicoes; who—­”

“I apologize,” growled Mallard.  “But you know in what sense I spoke.”

“Pray, what has Cecily become since I saw her in London?” asked the other, after a pause, during which he smiled his own interpretation of Mallard’s humour.