"We shall look eagerly for the results of your work."

For ten minutes the conversation kept a rather flat course. Cecily only
spoke when addressed by her aunt; then quite in her usual way. Elgar
took the first opportunity to signal departure. When Cecily gave him
her hand, it was with a moment's unfaltering look--a look very
different from that which charmed everyday acquaintances at their
coming and going, unlike anything man or woman had yet seen on her
countenance. The faintest smile hovered about her lips as she said,
"Good-bye;" her steadfast eyes added the hope which there was no need
to speak.

When he was gone, Mrs. Lessingham sipped her tea in silence. Cecily
moved about and presently brought a book to her chair by the tea-table.

"No doubt you had the advantage of hearing Mr. Elgar's projects
detailed," said her aunt, with irony which presumed a complete
understanding between them.

"No." Cecily shook her head and smiled.

"Curious how closely he and Mr. Marsh resemble each other at times."

"Do you think so?"

"Haven't you noticed it? There are differences, of course. Mr. Elgar is
originally much better endowed; though at present I should think he is
even less to be depended upon, either intellectually or morally. But
they belong to the same species. What numbers of such young men I have
met!"

"What are the characteristics of the species, aunt?" Cecily inquired,
with a pleasant laugh.

"I dare say you know them almost as well as I do. You might write an
essay on 'The Young Man of Promise' of our day. I should be rather too
severe; you would treat them with a lighter hand, and therefore more
effectually."

In speaking, she kept her eyes on the girl, who appeared to muse the
subject with sportful malice.

"I am not sure," said Cecily, "that Mr. Elgar would come into the
essay."

"You mean that his promise is too obviously delusive?"

"Not exactly that. I rather think he should have an essay to himself."

"Of what tendency?" asked Mrs. Lessingham, still closely observant.

"Oh, it would need much meditation; but I think I could make it
interesting."

With another laugh, she dismissed the subject; nor did her aunt
endeavour to revive it.

The morrow was Sunday. Elgar knew at what time his tram left for
Salerno; the time-table was the same as for other days. Yet he lay in
bed till nearly noon, till the train had long since started. No, he
should not go to-day.

It irked him to rise a