strongly stirred his sympathies by the dolorous account she gave of the
child's surroundings in the north. Cecily was being intellectually
starved; that seemed clear to Mallard himself after a little
conversation with her. It was wonderful how much she had already
learnt, impelled by sheer inner necessity, of things which in general
she was discouraged from studying. So Cecily left England, to return
only for short intervals, spent in London. Between that departure and
this present meeting, Mallard saw her only twice; but the girl wrote to
him with some regularity. These letters grew more and more delightful.
Cecily addressed herself with exquisite frankness as to an old friend,
old in both senses of the word; collected, they made a history of her
rapidly growing mind such as the shy artist might have glorified in
possessing. In reality, he did nothing of the kind; he wished the
letters would not come and disturb him in his work. He sent gruff
little answers, over which Cecily laughed, as so characteristic.

Yes, there was a distinct connection between those homely memories and
picturings which took him in thought to Sowerby Bridge, and the image
of Cecily Doran which had caused him to waste all this time in Naples.
They represented two worlds, in both of which he had some part; but it
was only too certain with which of them he was the more closely linked.
What but mere accident put him in contact with the world which was
Cecily's? Through her aunt she had aristocratic relatives; her wealth
made her a natural member of what is called society; her beauty and her
brilliancy marked her to be one of society's ornaments. What could she
possibly be to him, Ross Mallard, landscape-painter of small if any
note, as unaristocratic in mind and person as any one that breathed? To
put the point with uncompromising plainness, and therefore in all its
absurdity, how could he possibly imagine Cecily Doran called Mrs.
Mallard?

The thing was flagrantly, grossly, palpably absurd. He tingled in the
ears in trying to represent to himself how Cecily would think of it, if
by any misfortune it were ever suggested to her.

Then why not, in the name of common sense, cease to ponder such
follies, and get on with the work which waited for him? Why this
fluttering about a flame which scorched him more and more dangerously?
It was not the first time that he had experienced temptations of this
kind; a story of five years ago, its scene in London