“Yes.”

“I know that, of course.  Where is your husband?”

“I have neither seen him nor heard from him.  I shouldn’t have understood why he kept away but for the visitor that came—­a lady; she showed me a newspaper.”

Mallard knit his brows, and now scowled at her askance, now looked away.  His visage was profoundly troubled.  There was silence for some moments.  Cecily’s eyes wandered unconsciously over the paintings and other objects about her.

“You have come to ask me if I know where he is?”

She failed in her attempt to reply.

“I am sorry that I can’t tell you.  I know nothing of him.  But perhaps Mrs. Baske does.  You know their address?”

“I didn’t come for that,” she answered, with decision, her features working painfully.  “It is not my part to seek for him.”

“Then how can I help you?” Mallard asked, still gruffly, but with more evidence of the feeling that his tone disguised.

“You can’t help me, Mr. Mallard.  How could any one help me?  I was utterly alone, and I wanted to hear a friend’s voice.”

“That is only natural.  It is impossible for you to remain alone.  You don’t feel able to go to Mrs. Baske?”

She shook her head.

“But your aunt will come?  You have written to her?”

“No.  I had rather she didn’t come.  It seems strange to you that I should bring my troubles here, when it can only pain you to see me, and to have to speak.  But I am not seeking comfort or support—­not of the kind you naturally think I need.”

As he watched the workings of her lips, the helpless misery in her young eyes, the endeavour for self-command and the struggles of womanly pride, Mallard remembered how distinctly he had foreseen this in his past hours of anguish.  It was hard to grasp the present as a reality; at moments he seemed only to be witnessing the phantoms of his imagination.  The years that had vanished were so insubstantial in memory; now and then, what was it that divided the two?  This that was to-day a fact, was it not equally so when Cecily walked by his side at Baiae?  That which is to come, already is.  In the stress of a deep emotion we sometimes are made conscious of this unity of things, and the effect of such spiritual vision is a nobler calm than comes of mere acquiescence in human blindness.

“I came here,” Cecily was continuing, “because I had something to say to you—­something I shall never say to any one else.  You were my guardian when I was a child, and I have always thought of you as more than a simple friend.  I want to fulfil a duty to you.  I owe you gratitude, and I shall have no rest till I have spoken it—­told you how deeply I feel it.”

Mallard interrupted her, for every word seemed to be wrung from her by pain, and he felt like one who listens to a forced confession.

“Don’t give way to this prompting,” he said, with kind firmness.  “I understand, and it is enough.  You are not yourself; don’t speak whilst you are suffering so.”