t Amalfi and Paestum."

"Then, as usual, we shall see nothing of you," said Mrs. Spence. "Pray,
do you dine at Mrs. Gluck's this evening?"

"By no means."

"May we, then, have the pleasure of your company? There is no need to
go back to Vico Brancaccio. I am sure Mrs. Baske will excuse you the
torture of uniform."

With a sort of grumble, the invitation was accepted. A little while
after, Spence proposed to his friend a walk before sunset.

"Yes; let us go up the hill," said Mallard, rising abruptly. "I need
movement after the railway."

They left the villa, and Mallard grew less restrained in his
conversation.

"How does Mrs. Baske answer to your expectations?" Spence asked him.

"I had seen her photograph, you know."

"Where?"

"Her brother showed it me--one taken at the time of her marriage."

"What is Elgar doing at present?"

"It's more than a year since we crossed each other," Mallard replied.
"He was then going to the devil as speedily as can in reason be
expected of a man. I happened to encounter him one morning at Victoria
Station, and he seemed to have just slept off a great deal of heavy
drinking. Told me he was going down to Brighton to see about selling a
houseful of furniture there--his own property. I didn't inquire how or
why he came possessed of it. He is beyond help, I imagine. When he
comes to his last penny, he'll probably blow his brains out; just the
fellow to do that kind of thing."

"I suppose he hasn't done it already? His sister has heard nothing of
him for two years at least, and this account of yours is the latest I
have received."

"I should think he still lives, He would be sure to make a _coup de
theatre_ of his exit."

"Poor lad!" said the elder man, with feeling. "I liked him."

"Why, so did I; and I wish it had been in my scope to keep him in some
kind of order. Yes, I liked him much. And as for brains, why, I have
scarcely known a man who so impressed me with a sense of his ability.
But you could see that he was doomed from his cradle. Strongly like his
sister in face."

"I'm afraid the thought of him troubles her a good deal."

"She looks ill."

"Yes; we are uneasy about her," said Spence. Then, with a burst of
impatience: "There's no getting her mind away from that pestilent
Bartles. What do you think she is projecting now? It appears that the
Dissenters of Bartles are troubled concerning their chapel; it isn't
large enough. So Miriam proposes to pull down h