they no longer need to see each other every hour. And one
takes for granted that _they_, at all events, are not bourgeois; their
life won't be arranged exactly like that of Mr. and Mrs. Jones the
greengrocers."

"No," said the other, musingly.

"In what direction do you imagine that Cecily will progress? Possibly
she has become acquainted with disillusion."

"Possibly?"

"Well, take it for certain. Isn't that an inevitable step in her
education? Things may still be well enough, philosophically speaking.
She has her life to live--we know it will be to the end a modern life.
_Servetur ad imum_--and so on; that's what one would wish, I suppose?
We have no longer to take thought for her."

"But we are allowed to wish the best."

"What _is_ the best?" said Spenee, sustaining his tone of impartial
speculation. "Are you quite sure that Mr. and Mrs. Jones are not too
much in your mind?"

"Whatever modern happiness may mean, I am inclined to think that modern
unhappiness is not unlike that of old-fashioned people."

"My dear fellow, you are a halter between two opinions. You can't make
up your mind in which direction to look. You are a sort of Janus, with
anxiety on both faces."

"There's a good deal of truth in that," admitted the artist, with a
growl.

"Get on with your painting, and whatever else of practical you have in
mind. Leave philosophy to men of large leisure and placid pulses, like
myself. Accept the inevitable."

"I do so."

"But not with modern detachment," said Spence, smiling.

"Be hanged with your modernity! I believe myself distinctly the more
modern of the two."

"Not with regard to women. When you marry, you will be a rigid
autocrat, and make no pretence about it. You don't think of women as
independent beings, who must save or lose themselves on their own
responsibility. You are not willing to trust them alone."

"Well, perhaps you are right."

"Of course I am. Come and dine at the hotel. I think Seaborne will be
there."

"No, thank you."

Mallard had waited but a few minutes in the court of the Palazzo
Borghese next morning, when Miriam joined him. There was some
constraint on both sides. Miriam looked as if she did not wish
yesterday's conversation to be revived in their manner of meeting. Her
"Good-morning, Mr. Mallard," had as little reference as possible to the
fact of this being an appointment. The artist was in quite another mood
than that of yesterday; his smile was formal,