mystery. Roderick was peculiarly inscrutable. He was preoccupied with
his work on his mother's portrait, which was taking a very happy turn;
and often, when he sat silent, with his hands in his pockets, his legs
outstretched, his head thrown back, and his eyes on vacancy, it was to
be supposed that his fancy was hovering about the half-shaped image in
his studio, exquisite even in its immaturity. He said little, but his
silence did not of necessity imply disaffection, for he evidently found
it a deep personal luxury to lounge away the hours in an atmosphere so
charged with feminine tenderness. He was not alert, he suggested nothing
in the way of excursions (Rowland was the prime mover in such as were
attempted), but he conformed passively at least to the tranquil temper
of the two women, and made no harsh comments nor sombre allusions.
Rowland wondered whether he had, after all, done his friend injustice in
denying him the sentiment of duty. He refused invitations, to Rowland's
knowledge, in order to dine at the jejune little table-d'hote; wherever
his spirit might be, he was present in the flesh with religious
constancy. Mrs. Hudson's felicity betrayed itself in a remarkable
tendency to finish her sentences and wear her best black silk gown. Her
tremors had trembled away; she was like a child who discovers that
the shaggy monster it has so long been afraid to touch is an inanimate
terror, compounded of straw and saw-dust, and that it is even a safe
audacity to tickle its nose. As to whether the love-knot of which Mary
Garland had the keeping still held firm, who should pronounce? The young
girl, as we know, did not wear it on her sleeve. She always sat at
the table, near the candles, with a piece of needle-work. This was the
attitude in which Rowland had first seen her, and he thought, now that
he had seen her in several others, it was not the least becoming.

CHAPTER X. The Cavaliere

There befell at last a couple of days during which Rowland was unable
to go to the hotel. Late in the evening of the second one Roderick came
into his room. In a few moments he announced that he had finished the
bust of his mother.

"And it 's magnificent!" he declared. "It 's one of the best things I
have done."

"I believe it," said Rowland. "Never again talk to me about your
inspiration being dead."

"Why not? This may be its last kick! I feel very tired. But it 's a
masterpiece, though I do say it. They tell us we owe