a year ago; they conversed casually in Piale's
reading-room, and Seaborne happened to say that the one English
landscape-painter who strongly interested him was a little-known man,
Ross Mallard. His own work was mostly anonymous; he wrote for one of
the quarterlies and one of the weekly reviews. He was a little younger
than Mallard, whom in certain respects he resembled; he had much the
same way of speaking, the same reticence with regard to his own doings,
even a slight similarity of feature, and his life seemed to be rather a
lonely one.

When the two met, they behaved precisely as Spence predicted they
would--with reserve, almost with coldness. For all that, Seaborne paid
a visit to the artist's room, and in a couple of hours' talk they
arrived at a fair degree of mutual understanding. The next day they
smoked together in an odd abode occupied by the literary man near Porto
di Ripetta, and thenceforth were good friends.

The morning after that, Mallard went early to the Vatican. He ascended
the Scala Regia, and knocked at the little red door over which is
written, "Cappella Sistina." On entering, he observed only a gentleman
and a young girl, who stood in the middle of the floor, consulting
their guide-book; but when he had taken a few steps forward, he saw a
lady come from the far end and seat herself to look at the ceiling
through an opera-glass. It was Mrs. Baske, and he approached whilst she
was still intent on the frescoes. The pausing of his footstep close to
her caused her to put down the glass and regard him. Mallard noticed
the sudden change from cold remoteness of countenance to pleased
recognition. The brightening in her eyes was only for a moment; then
she smiled in her usual half-absent way, and received him formally.

"You are not alone?" he said, taking a place by her as she resumed her
seat.

"Yes, I have come alone." And, after a pause, she added, "We don't
think it necessary always to keep together. That would become
burdensome. I often leave them, and go to places by myself."

Her look was still turned upwards. Mallard followed its direction.

"Which of the Sibyls is your favourite?" he asked.

At once she indicated the Delphic, but without speaking.

"Mine too."

Both fixed their eyes upon the figure, and were silent.

"You have been here very often?" were Mallard's next words.

"Last year very often."

"From genuine love of it, or a sense of duty?" he asked, examining her
face.