a kill-joy?"

"That has nothing to do with the question," replied Mallard, preserving
a tone of gruff impartiality. "Have I been faithful to my stewardship?
When I consented to Cecily's--to Miss Doran's passing from Mrs. Elgar's
care to that of Mrs. Lessingham, was I doing right?"

"Mallard, you are a curious instance of the Puritan conscience
surviving in a man whose intellect is liberated. The note of your
character, including your artistic character, is this
conscientiousness. Without it, you would have had worldly success long
ago. Without it, you wouldn't talk nonsense of Cecily Doran. Had you
rather she were co=operating with Mrs. Baske in a scheme to rebuild all
the chapels in Lancashire?"

"There is a medium."

"Why, yes. A neither this nor that, an insipid refinement, a taste for
culture moderated by reverence for Mrs. Grundy."

"Perhaps you are right. It's only occasionally that I am troubled in
this way. But I heartily wish the three years remaining were over."

"And the 'definite good-bye' spoken. A good phrase, that of yours. What
possessed you to come here just now, if it disturbs you to be kept in
mind of these responsibilities?"

"I should find it hard to tell you. The very sense of responsibility, I
suppose. But, as I said, I am not going to stay in Naples."

"You'll come and give us a 'definite good-bye' before you leave?"

Mallard said nothing, but turned and began to move on. They passed one
of the sentry-boxes which here along the ridge mark the limits of
Neapolitan excise; a boy-soldier, musket in hand, cast curious glances
at them. After walking in silence for a few minutes, they began to
descend the eastern face of the hill, and before them lay that portion
of the great gulf which pictures have made so familiar. The landscape
was still visible in all its main details, still softly suffused with
warm colours from the west. About the cone of Vesuvius a darkly purple
cloud was gathering; the twin height of Somma stood clear and of a rich
brown. Naples, the many-coloured, was seen in profile, climbing from
the Castel dell' Ovo, around which the sea slept, to the rock of Sant'
Elmo; along the curve of the Chiaia lights had begun to glimmer. Far
withdrawn, the craggy promontory of Sorrento darkened to profoundest
blue; and Capri veiled itself in mist.

CHAPTER II

CECILY DORAN

Villa Sannazaro had no architectural beauty; it was a building of
considerable size, irregular, in nee