They were interrupted by the entrance of an English maidservant, who asked whether Miss Doran would have tea brought at once, or wait till Mrs. Lessingham’s return.

“You see how English we are,” said Cecily to her visitor.  “I think we’ll have it now; Mrs. Lessingham may be hero any moment.”

It was growing dusk.  Whilst the conversation was diverted by trifles, two lighted lamps were brought into the room.  Elgar had risen and gone to the window.

“We won’t shut out the evening sky,” said Cecily, standing not far from him.

The door closed upon the servant who had carried in the tea-tray.  Elgar turned to his companion, and said in a musing tone, with a smile: 

“How long is it since we saw each other every day in Manchester?”

“Seven years since that short time you spent with us.”

“Seven; yes.  You were not twelve then; I was not quite twenty-one.  As regards change, a lifetime might have passed since, with both of us.  Yet I don’t feel very old, not oppressively ancient.”

“And I’m sure I don’t.”

They laughed together.

“You are younger than you were then,” he continued, in his most characteristic voice, the voice which was musical and alluring, and suggestive of his nature’s passionate depths and heights.  “You have grown into health of body and soul, and out of all the evil things that would have robbed you of natural happiness.  Nothing ever made me more glad than first seeing you at the villa.  I didn’t know what you had become, and in looking at you I rejoiced on your account.  You would gladden even miserable old age, like sunlight on a morning of spring.”

Cecily moved towards the tea-table in silence.  She began to fill one of the cups, but put the teapot down again and waited for a moment.  Having resumed her purpose, she looked round and saw Elgar seated sideways on a chair by the window.  With the cup of tea in her hand, she approached him and offered it without speaking.  He rose quickly to take it, and went to another part of the room.

“I hope Miriam will stay here the whole winter,” Cecily said, as she seated herself by the table.

“I hope so,” he assented absently, putting his tea aside.  “How long are you and Mrs. Lessingham likely to stay?”

“At least till February, I think.”

“Shall you get as far as Amalfi some day?”

“Oh yes And Miriam will come with us, I hope.  And to Capri too.”

“I must see Capri.  I shouldn’t wonder if I go there soon; probably it would suit my purpose better than Amalfi.  Yet I must be alone, if I am to work.  I haven’t Mallard’s detachment.  That seems to you a paltry confession of weakness.”

“No, indeed.  I am told that Mr. Mallard is quite exceptional in his power of disregarding everything but his work.”

“Exceptional in many things, no doubt.  I must seem very insignificant in comparison.”