on at once to Sorrento," he said, meeting Elgar afterwards
in the garden. "To-morrow I shall cross over the hills to Positano and
Amalfi. Suppose you come with me?"

The other hesitated.

"You mean you are going to walk?"

"No. I have traps to carry on from the station. We should have a
carriage to Sorrento, and to-morrow a donkey for the baggage."

They paced about, hands in pockets. It was a keen morning; the
tramontana blew blusterously, causing the smoke of Vesuvius to lie all
down its long slope, a dense white cloud, or a vast turbid torrent,
breaking at the foot into foam and spray. The clearness of the air was
marvellous. Distance seemed to have no power to dim the details of the
landscape. The Apennines glistened with new-fallen snow.

"I hadn't thought of going any further just now," said Elgar, who
seemed to have a difficulty in simply declining the invitation, as he
wished to do.

"What should you do, then?"

"Spend another day here, I think,--I've only had a few hours among the
ruins, you know,--and then go back to Naples."

"What to do there?" asked Mallard, bluntly.

"Give a little more time to the museum, and see more of the
surroundings."

"Better come on with me. I shall be glad of your company."

It was said with decision, but scarcely with heartiness. Elgar looked
about him vaguely.

"To tell you the truth," he said at last, "I don't care to incur much
expense."

"The expenses of what I propose are trivial."

"My traps are at Naples, and I have kept the room there. No, I don't
see my way to it, Mallard."

"All right."

The artist turned away. He walked about the road for ten minutes.--
Very well; then he too would return to Naples. Why? What was altered?
Even if Elgar accompanied him to Amalfi, it would only be for a few
days; there was no preventing the fellow's eventual return--his visits
to the villa, perhaps to Mrs. Gluck's. Again imbecile and insensate
What did it all matter?

He stopped short. He would sit down and write a letter to Mrs.
Baske.--A pretty complication, that! What grounds for such a letter as
he meditated?

The devil! Had he not a stronger will than Reuben Elgar? If he wished
to carry a point with such a weakling, was he going to let himself be
thwarted? Grant it was help only for a few days, no matter; Elgar
should go with him.

He walked back to the garden. Good; there the fellow loitered,
obviously irresolute.

"Elgar, you'd better come, after all,