“No.”  Cecily shook her head and smiled.

“Curious how closely he and Mr. Marsh resemble each other at times.”

“Do you think so?”

“Haven’t you noticed it?  There are differences, of course.  Mr. Elgar is originally much better endowed; though at present I should think he is even less to be depended upon, either intellectually or morally.  But they belong to the same species.  What numbers of such young men I have met!”

“What are the characteristics of the species, aunt?” Cecily inquired, with a pleasant laugh.

“I dare say you know them almost as well as I do.  You might write an essay on ‘The Young Man of Promise’ of our day.  I should be rather too severe; you would treat them with a lighter hand, and therefore more effectually.”

In speaking, she kept her eyes on the girl, who appeared to muse the subject with sportful malice.

“I am not sure,” said Cecily, “that Mr. Elgar would come into the essay.”

“You mean that his promise is too obviously delusive?”

“Not exactly that.  I rather think he should have an essay to himself.”

“Of what tendency?” asked Mrs. Lessingham, still closely observant.

“Oh, it would need much meditation; but I think I could make it interesting.”

With another laugh, she dismissed the subject; nor did her aunt endeavour to revive it.

The morrow was Sunday.  Elgar knew at what time his tram left for Salerno; the time-table was the same as for other days.  Yet he lay in bed till nearly noon, till the train had long since started.  No, he should not go to-day.

It irked him to rise at all.  He had not slept; his head was hot, and his hands shook nervously.  Dressed, he sat down for a minute, and remained seated half an hour, gazing at the wall.  When at length he left the house, he walked without seeing anything, stumbling against things and people.

Of course, he knew last night that there was no journey for him to-day.  Promise?  A promise is void when its fulfilment has become impossible.  Very likely Mallard had a conviction that he would not come back at the appointed time.  To-morrow, perhaps; and perhaps not even to-morrow It had got beyond his control.

He ate, and returned to his room.  Just now his need was physical repose, undisturbed indulgence of reverie.  And the reverie of a man in his condition is a singular process.  It consists of a small number of memories, forecasts, Imaginings, repeated over and over again, till one would think the brain must weary itself beyond endurance.  It can go on for many hours consecutively, and not only remain a sufficient and pleasurable employment, but render every other business repulsive, all but impossible.

At evening there came a change.  He was now unable to keep still; he went into the town, and exhausted himself with. walking up and down the hilly streets.  Society would have helped him, but he could find none.  He would not go to the villa; still less could he visit the boarding-house.