Wet and weary, they had no choice but to return to the inn.  Elgar’s animation had given place to fretfulness; Mallard, after his miserable night, eared little to converse, and would gladly have been alone.  A midday meal, with liberal supply of wine, helped them somewhat, and they sat down to smoke in their bedroom.  It rained harder than ever; from the window they could see the old tower on the crag smitten with white scud.

“Come now,” said Mallard, forcing himself to take a livelier tone, “tell me about those projects of yours.  Are you serious in your idea of writing?”

“Perfectly serious.”

“And what are you going to write?”

“That I haven’t quite determined. lam revolving things.  I have ideas without number.”

“Too many for use, then.  You need to live in some such place as this for a few weeks, and clear your thoughts.  ’Company, villainous company,’ is the first thing to be avoided.”

“No doubt you are right”

But it was half-heartedly said, and with a restless glance towards the window.  Mallard, in whose heart a sick weariness conflicted with his will and his desire, went on in a dogged way.

“I want to work here for a time.”  Work!  The syllable was like lead upon his tongue, and the thought a desolation in his mind.  “Write to your sister; get her to send your belongings from Casa Rolandi, together with a ream of scribbling-paper.  I shall be out of doors most of the day, and no one will disturb you here.  Use the opportunity like a man.  Fall to.  I have a strong suspicion that it is now or never with you.”

“I doubt whether I could do anything here.”

“Perhaps not on a day like this; but it is happily exceptional.  Remember yesterday.  Were I a penman, the view from this window in sunlight would make the ink flow nobly.”

Elgar was mute for a few minutes.

“I believe I need a big town.  Scenes like this dispose me to idle enjoyment.  I have thought of settling in Paris for the next six months.”

Mallard made a movement of irritation.

“Then why did you come here at all?  You say you have no money to waste.”

“Oh, it isn’t quite so bad with me as all that,” replied Elgar, as if he slightly resented this interference with his private affairs.

Yet he had yesterday, in the flow of his good-humour, all but confessed that it was high time he looked out for an income.  Mallard examined him askance.  The other, aware of this scrutiny, put on a smile, and said with an air of self-conquest: 

“But you are right; I have every reason to trust your advice.  I’ll tell you what, Mallard.  To-morrow I’ll drive to Salerno, take the train to Naples, pack my traps, and relieve Miriam’s mind by an assurance that I’m going to work in your company; then at once come back here.”

“I don’t see the need of going to Naples.  Write a letter.  Here’s paper; here’s pen and ink.”