he hoped to see
her before long. She waited, always apprehensive of ill. What she
divined of her brother's life was inextricably mingled with the other
causes of her suffering.

One afternoon she returned from walking on the Chelsea Embankment, and,
on reaching the drawing-room door, which was ajar, heard a voice that
made her stand still. She delayed an instant; then entered, and found
Eleanor in conversation with Mallard.

He had been in London, he said, only a day or two. Miriam inquired
whether Mrs. Lessingham and Cecily had also left Rome. Not yet, he
thought, but certainly they would be starting in a few days. The
conversation then went on between Mallard and Eleanor; Miriam, holding
a cup of tea, only gave a brief reply when it was necessary.

"And now," said Eleanor, "appoint a day for us to come and see your
studio."

"You shall appoint it yourself."

"Then let us say to-morrow."

In speaking, Eleanor turned interrogatively to Miriam, who, however,
said nothing. Mallard addressed her.

"May I hope that you will come, Mrs. Baske?"

His tone was, to her ear, as unsatisfying as could be; he seemed to put
the question under constraint of civility. But, of course, only one
answer was possible.

So next day this visit was paid; Spence also came. Mallard had made
preparations. A tea-service which would not have misbecome Eleanor's
own drawing-room stood in readiness. Pictures were examined, tea was
taken, artistic matters were discussed.

And Miriam went away in uttermost discontent. She felt that henceforth
her relations with Mallard were established on a perfectly conventional
basis. Her dreams were left behind in Rome. Here was no Vatican in
which to idle and hope for possible meetings. The holiday was over.
Everything seemed of a sudden so flat and commonplace, that even her
jealousy of Cecily faded for lack of sustenance.

Then she received a letter from Cecily herself, announcing return
within a week. From Reuben she had even yet heard nothing.

A few days later, as she was reading in her room between tea and
dinner-time, Eleanor came in; she held an evening newspaper, and looked
very grave--more than grave. Miriam, as soon as their eyes met, went
pale with misgiving.

"There's something here," Eleanor began, "that I must show you. If I
said nothing about it, you would see it all the same. Sooner or later,
we should speak of it."

"What is it? About whom?" Miriam asked, with fearful impatience