merit. I spoke of myself being _forced_
upwards. If ever I feel that I am slipping back, I shall state it with
just as little admission of shame."

Miriam heard this modern dialogue with grave features. At Bartles, such
talk would have qualified the talker for social excommunication, and
every other pain and penalty Bartles had in its power to inflict. She
observed that Cecily's interest increased. The girl listened frankly;
no sense of anything improper appeared in her visage. Nay, she was
about to interpose a remark.

"Isn't there a hope, Mr. Elgar, that this envy of which you speak will
be one of the things that the upward path leaves behind?"

"I should like to believe it, Miss Doran," he answered, his eyes
kindling at hers. "It's true that I haven't yet gone very far."

"I like so much to believe it that I _do_ believe it," the girl
continued impulsively.

"Your progress in that direction exceeds mine."

"Don't be troubled by the compliment," interjected Eleanor, before
Cecily could speak. "There is no question of merit."

Mrs. Lessingham laughed.

The rain still fell, and the grey heavens showed no breaking. Shortly
after this, Elgar would have risen to take his leave, but Mrs. Spence
begged him to remain and lunch with them. The visitors from the
Mergellina declined a similar invitation.

Edward Spence was passing his morning at the Museum. On his return at
luncheon-time, Eleanor met him with the intelligence that Reuben Elgar
had presented himself, and was now in his sister's room.

"_In forma pauperis_, presumably," said Spence, raising his eyebrows.

"I can't say, but I fear it isn't impossible. Cecily and her aunt
happened to call this morning, and he had some talk with them."

"Is he very much of a blackguard?" inquired her husband,
disinterestedly.

"Indeed, no. That is to say, externally and in his conversation. It's a
decided improvement on our old impressions of him."

"I'm glad to hear it," was the dry response.

"He has formed himself in some degree. Hints that he is going to
produce literature."

"Of course." Spence laughed merrily. "The last refuge of a scoundrel."

"I don't like to judge him so harshly, Ned. He has a fine face."

"And is Miriam killing the fatted calf?"

"His arrival seems to embarrass rather than delight her."

"Depend upon it, the fellow has come to propose a convenient division
of her personal property."

When he again appeared, Elgar was in excellent sp