h.

Was it, in a measure, woman's gratitude for love? In the course of
three years she had seen many reasons for believing that Reuben was
right; that the artist had loved her, and gone through dark struggles
when her fate was being decided. That must have added tenderness to her
former regard and admiration. But she was glad that he had now
recovered his liberty; the first meeting, his look and the grasp of his
hand, told her at once that the trouble was long gone by. She was glad
of this, and the proof of her sincerity came when she watched the
relations between him and Miriam.

On the last evening, Miriam came to her room, carrying a small
portfolio, which she opened before her, disclosing three water-colours.

"You have bought them?" Cecily asked, as the other said nothing.

"No. Mr. Mallard has given me them," was the answer, in a voice which
affected a careless pleasure.

"They are admirable. I am delighted that you take such a present away
with you."

Cecily expected no confidences, and received none; she could only
puzzle over the problem. Why did Miriam behave with so strange a
coldness? Her new way of regarding life ought to have resulted in her
laying aside that austerity. Mrs. Lessingham hinted an opinion that the
change did not go very deep; Puritanism, the result of birth and
breeding, was not so easily eradicated.

Mallard stayed on in Rome, but during this next week Cecily only saw
him twice--the first time, for a quarter of an hour on the Pincio; then
in the Forum. On that second occasion he was invited to dine with them
at the hotel the next day, Mr. Seaborne's company having also been
requested. The result was a delightful evening. Seaborne was just now
busy with a certain period of Papal history; he talked of some old
books he had been reading in the Vatican library, and revealed a world
utterly strange to all his hearers.

Here were men who used their lives to some purpose; who rot only
planned, but executed. When the excitement of the evening had subsided,
Cecily thought with more bitterness than ever yet of the contrast
between such workers and her husband. The feeling which had first come
upon her intensely when she stood before Mallard's picture at the
Academy was now growing her habitual mood. She had shut herself out for
ever from close communion with this world of genuine activity; she
could only regard it from behind a barrier, instead of warming her
heart and brain in free enjoyme