Miriam had glanced at the Apollo as he spoke.  Conscious of his eyes upon her, she looked away, saying in a forced tone: 

“I had no such thought.  You misunderstood me.”

“It was all my fault, then, and I am sorry for it.  You said just now that you preferred to be alone.  I shall come to the hotel to-morrow, just to say good-bye.”

He rose; and Miriam, as she did the same, asked formally: 

“You are still uncertain how long you remain here?”

“Quite,” was his answer, cheerfully given.

“You are not going to work?”

“No; it is holiday with me for a while.  I wish you were staying a little longer.”

“You will still have friends here.”

Mallard disliked the tone of this.

“Oh yes,” he replied.  “I hope to see Mrs. Lessingham and Mrs. Elgar sometimes.”

He paused; then added: 

“I dare say I shall return to England about the same time that they do.  May I hope to see you in London?”

“I am quite uncertain where I shall be.”

“Then perhaps we shall not meet for a long time.—­Will you let me give you one or two little drawings that may help to remind you of Italy?”

Miriam’s cheeks grew warm, and she east down her eyes.

“Your drawings are far too valuable to be given as one gives trifles, Mr. Mallard.”

“I don’t wish you to receive them as trifles.  One of their values to me is that I can now and then please a friend with them.  If you had rather I did not think of you as a friend, then you would be right to refuse them.”

“I will receive them gladly.”

“Thank you.  They shall be sent to the hotel.”

They shook hands, and he left her.

On the morrow they met again for a few minutes, when he came to say good-bye.  Miriam made no mention of the packet that had reached her.  She was distant, and her smile at leave-taking very cold.

So the three travelled northwards.

Their departure brought back Cecily’s despondent mood.  With difficulty she restrained her tears in parting from Eleanor; when she was alone, they had their way.  She felt vaguely miserable—­was troubled with shapeless apprehensions, with a sense of desolateness.

The next day brought a letter from her husband, “Dear Ciss,” he wrote, “I am sorry its so long since I sent you a line, but really there’s no news.  I foresee that I shall not have much manuscript to show you; I am reading hugely, but I don’t feel ready to write.  Hope you are much better; give me notice of your return.  My regards to Mallard; I expect you will see very little of him.”  And so, with a “yours ever,” the epistle ended.

This was all Reuben had to say to her, when she had been absent nearly a month.  With a dull disappointment, she put the arid thing out of her sight.  It had been her intention to write to-day, but now she could not.  She had even less to say than he.