to show her
knowledge--of course we encourage her to do so. A blessed form of
vanity, compared with certain things one remembers!"

"She looks as if she had by no means conquered peace of mind," observed
Mallard, after another silence.

"I don't suppose she has. I don't even know whether she's on the way to
it."

"How about the chapel at Bartles?"

Spence shook his head and laughed, and the dialogue came to an end.

The next morning all started for Rome.

CHAPTER VII

LEARNING AND TEACHING

Easter was just gone by. The Spences had timed their arrival in Rome so
as to be able to spend a few days with certain friends, undisturbed by
bell-clanging and the rush of trippers, before at length returning to
England. Their hotel was in the Babuino. Mallard, who was uncertain
about his movements during the next month or two, went to quarters with
which he was familiar in the Via Bocca di Leone. He brought his Paestum
picture to the hotel, but declined to leave it there. Mallard was
deficient in those properties of the showman which are so necessary to
an artist if he would make his work widely known and sell it for
substantial sums; he hated anything like private exhibition, and
dreaded an offer to purchase from any one who had come in contact with
him by way of friendly introduction.

"I'm not satisfied with it, now I come to look at it again. It's
nothing but a rough sketch."

"But Seaborne will be here this afternoon," urged Spence. "He will be
grateful if you let him see it."

"If he cares to come to my room, he shall."

Miriam made no remark on the picture, but kept looking at it as long as
it was uncovered. The temples stood in the light of early morning, a
wonderful, indescribable light, perfectly true and rendered with great
skill.

"Is it likely to be soon sold?" she asked, when the artist had gone off
with his canvas.

"As likely as not, he'll keep it by him for a year or two, till he
hates it for a few faults that no one else can perceive or be taught to
understand," was Mr. Spence's reply. "I wish I could somehow become
possessed of it. But if I hinted such a wish, he would insist on my
taking it as a present. An impracticable fellow, Mallard. He suspects I
want to sell it for him; that's why he won't leave it. And if Seaborne
goes to his room, ten to one he'll be received with growls of surly
independence."

This Mr. Seaborne was a man of letters. Spence had made his
acquaintance in Rome