“He is working himself?”

“Will be by now; we had horrible day of rain at Amalfi.  He seems rather glummer than usual, but that won’t hinder his work.  I wish I had the old fellow’s energy.  After all, though, one can force one’s self to use pencils and brushes; it’s a different thing when all has to come from the brain.  If you haven’t a quiet mind—­”

“What disturbs you?” Miriam asked, watching him.

“Oh, there’s always something.  I wish you could give me a share of your equanimity.  Never mind, I shall try.  By-the-bye, I ought to have a word with Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily before I go.  Are they likely to be here tomorrow?”

“I can’t say.”

“Then I shall call at their place.  When will they be at home?”

“Do you think you ought to do that?” Miriam asked, without looking at him.

“Why on earth not?”

His brow darkened, and he seemed about to utter something not unlike his vehemencies on the day of arrival.

“You must judge for yourself, of course,” said Miriam.  “We won’t talk about it.”

Reuben nodded agreement carelessly.  Then he began to talk of his proposed work, and presently they went to join the Spences.  For an hour or more, Reuben held forth rapturously on what he had seen these last few days.  He could not rest seated, but paced up and down the room, gesticulating, fervidly eloquent.

“Do play me something, will you, Mrs. Spence?” he asked at length.  (His cousinship with Eleanor had never been affirmed by intimate association, and he had not the habit of addressing her by the personal name.) “Just for ten minutes; then I’ll be off and trouble you no more.  Something to invigorate!  A rugged piece!”

Eleanor made a choice from Beethoven, and, whilst she played, Elgar leant forward on the back of a chair.  Then he bade them good-bye, his pulse at fever-time.

Half-past ten next morning found him walking hither and thither on the Mergellina, frequently consulting his watch.  He decided at length to approach the house in which his acquaintances dwelt.  Passing through the portone, whom should he encounter but Clifford Marsh, known to him only from the casual meeting at Pompeii, not by name.  They stopped to speak.  Elgar inquired if the other lived at Mrs. Gluck’s.

“For the present.”

“I have friends here,” Reuben added.  “You know Mrs. Lessingham?”

“Oh yes,” replied Clifford, eyeing his collocutor.  “If you are calling to see those ladies,” he continued, “they went out half an hour ago.  I saw them drive away.”

Elgar muttered his annoyance.  Though he disliked doing so, he asked Marsh whether he knew when the ladies were likely to return.  Clifford declared his ignorance.  The two looked at each other, smiled, said good morning, and turned different ways.

Reuben walked about the sea-front for a couple of hours.  “Who is that confounded fellow?” he kept asking in his mind, adding the highly ludicrous question, “What business has he to know them?” His impatience waxed; now and then he strode at such a pace that perspiration covered him.  The most trivial discomposure had often much the same effect on him; if he happened to have a difficulty in finding his way, for instance, he would fume himself into exasperated heat.