"Miss Doran," he continued, "will not marry Elgar with my consent until she be one-and-twenty. Then, of course, she may do as she likes."

"You will see Mr. Elgar, and make this clear to him?"

"Very clear indeed," was the grim reply. "As for any thing else, why, what can we do? If they insist upon it, I suppose they must see each other--of course, under reason able restrictions. You cannot make yourself a duenna of melodrama, Mrs. Lessingham."

"Scarcely. But I think our stay at Naples may reasonably be shortened--unless, of course, Mr. Elgar leaves."

"You take it for granted, I see, that Miss Doran will be guided by our judgment," said Mallard, after musing on the last remark.

"I have no fear of that," replied Mrs. Lessingham with confidence, "if it is made to appear only a question of postponement. This will be a trifle compared with my task of yesterday morning. You can scarcely imagine how astonished she was at the first hint of opposition."

"I can imagine it very well," said the other, in his throat. "What else could be expected after--" He checked himself on the point of saying something that would have revealed his opinion of Mrs. Lessingham's "system"--his opinion accentuated by unreasoning bitterness. "From all we know of her," were the words he subst.i.tuted.

"She is more like her father than I had supposed," said Mrs.

Lessingham, meditatively.

Mallard stood up.

"You will let her know that I have been here?"

"Certainly."

"She has expressed no wish to see me?"

"None. I had better report to her simply that you have no objection to Mr. Elgar's visits."

"That is all I would say at present. I shall see Elgar tonight. He is still at Casa Rolandi, I take it?"

"That was the address on his letter."

"Then, good-night. By-the-bye, I had better give you my address." He wrote it on a leaf in his pocket-book. "I will see you again in a day or two, when things have begun to clear up."

"It's too bad that you should have this trouble, Mr. Mallard."

"I don't pretend to like it, but there's no help."

And he left Mrs. Lessingham to make her comment on his candour.

Yes, Signor Elgar was in his chamber; he had entered but a quarter of an hour since. The signor seemed not quite well, unhappily--said Olimpia, the domestic, in her chopped Neapolitan. Mallard vouchsafed no reply. He knocked sharply at the big solid door. There was a cry of "Avanti!" and he entered.

Elgar advanced a few steps. He did not affect to smile, but looked directly at his visitor, who--as if all the pain of the interview were on him rather than the other--cast down his eyes.

"I was expecting you," said Reuben, without offering his hand.

"So was I you--three days ago."

"Sit down, and let us talk. I'm ashamed of myself, Mallard. I ought at all events to have written."

"One would have thought so."

"Have you seen Mrs. Lessingham?"

"Yes."

"Then you understand everything. I repeat that I am ashamed of my behaviour to you. For days--since last Sat.u.r.day--I have been little better than a madman. On Sat.u.r.day I went to say good-bye to Mrs.

Lessingham and her niece; it was _bona fide_, Mallard."

"In your sense of the phrase. Go on."

"I tell you, I then meant to leave Naples," pursued Elgar, who had repeated this so often to himself, by way of palliation, that he had come to think it true. "It was not my fault that I couldn't when that visit was over. It happened that I saw Miss Doran alone--sat talking with her till her aunt returned."

Mrs. Lessingham had made no mention of this little matter. Hearing of it, Mallard e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed mentally, "Idiot!"

"It was all over with me. I broke faith with you--as I should have done with any man; as I should have done if the lives of a hundred people had depended on my coming. I didn't write, because I preferred not to write lies, and if I had told the truth, I knew you would come at once.

To be sure, silence might have had the same result, but I had to risk something, and I risked that."

"I marvel at your disinclination to lie."

"What do you mean by saying that?" broke out Elgar, with natural warmth.

"I mean simply what I say. Go on."

"After all, Mallard, I don't quite know why you should take this tone with me. If a man falls in love, he thinks of nothing but how to gain his end; I should think even you can take that for granted. My broken promise is a trifle in view of what caused it."

"Again, in _your_ view. In mine it is by no means a trifle. It distinguishes you from honourable men, that's all; a point of some moment, I should think, when your character is expressly under discussion."

"You mean, of course, that I am not worthy of Cecily. I can't grant any such conclusion."

"Let us leave that aside for the present," said Mallard. "Will you tell me how it came to pa.s.s that you met Miss Doran and her companions at Pompeii?"

Elgar hesitated; whereupon the other added quickly:

"If it was with Miss Doran's antic.i.p.ation, I want no details."

"No, it wasn't."

Their looks met.

"By chance, then, of course?" said Mallard, sourly.

Elgar spoke on an impulse, leaning forward.

"Look, I won't lie to you. Miriam told me they were going. I met her that morning, when I was slinking about, and I compelled her to give me her help--sorely against her will. Don't think ill of her for it, Mallard. I frightened he! by my violent manner. I haven't seen her since; she can't know what the result has been. None of them at Pompeii suspected--only a moment of privacy; there's no need to say any more about it."

Mallard mused over this revelation. He felt inclined to scorn Elgar for making it. It affected him curiously, and at once took a place among his imaginings of Miriam.

"You shall promise me that you won't betray your knowledge of this,"

added Reuben. "At all events, not now. Promise me that. Your word is to be trusted, I know."