If he asked her, would she not give him that hand, to be his always?  Perhaps, perhaps; in her gentleness she would submit to this change, and do her best to love him.  And in return he would give her gruff affection, removal from the life to which she was accustomed, loneliness, his uncertain humours, his dubious reputation.  How often most he picture these results, and convince himself of the impossibility of anything of the kind?

He knew her better than did Mrs. Lessingham; oh, far better!  He had detected in her deep eyes the sleeping passion, some day to awake with suddenness and make the whole world new to her.  He knew how far from impossible it was that Reuben Elgar should be the prince to break her charmed slumber.  There was the likeness and the unlikeness; common to both that temperament of enthusiasm.  On the one hand, Cecily with her unsullied maidenhood; and on the other, Elgar with his reckless experiences—­contrasts which so commonly have a mutual attraction.  There was the singularity of their meeting after years, and seeing each other in such a new light; the interest, the curiosity inevitably resulting.  What likelihood that any distrust would mingle with Cecily’s warmth of feeling, were that feeling once excited?  He knew her too well.

How Mrs. Lessingham regarded Elgar he did not know.  He had no confidence in that lady’s discretion; he thought it not improbable that she would speak of Reuben to Cecily in the very way she should not, making him an impressive figure.  Then again, what part was Mrs. Baske likely to have in such a situation?  Could she be relied upon to rep resent her brother unfavourably, with the right colour of unfavourableness?  Or was it not rather to be feared that the thought of Cecily’s influence might tempt her to encourage what otherwise she must have condemned?  He retraced in memory that curious dialogue he had held with Miriam on the drive back from Baiae; could he gather from it any hints of her probable behaviour?. . . .

By a sudden revulsion of mind, Mallard became aware that in the long fit of brooding just gone by he had not been occupied with Cecily at all.  Busying his thoughts with Mrs. Baske, he had slipped into a train of meditation already begun on the evening in question, after the drive with her.  What was Mrs. Baske’s true history?  How had she come to marry the man of whom Elgar’s phrases had produced such a hateful image?  What was the state, in very deed, of her mind at present?  What awaited her in the future?

It was curious that Mrs. Baske’s face was much more recoverable by his mind’s eye than Cecily’s.  In fact, to see Miriam cost him no effort at all; equally at will. he heard the sound of her voice.  There were times when Cecily, her look and utterance, visited him very clearly; but this was when he did not wish to be reminded of her.  If he endeavoured to make her present, as a rule the picturing faculty was irresponsive.