very
interesting man, and I wish he would be more friendly with me. I tried
hard to win his confidence on the journey from Genoa, but I didn't seem
to have much success. I fancy"--she laughed--"that he is still in the
habit of regarding me as a little girl, who wouldn't quite understand
him if he spoke of serious things. When I wished to talk of his
painting, he would only joke. That annoyed me a little, and I tried to
let him see that it did, with the result that he refused to speak of
anything for a long time."

"What does Mr. Mallard paint?" Miriam asked, half absently.

"Landscape," was the reply, given with veiled surprise. "Did you never
see anything of his?"

"I remember; the Bradshaws have a picture by him in their dining-room.
They showed it me when I was last in Manchester. I'm afraid I looked at
it very inattentively, for it has never re-entered my mind from that
day to this. But I was ill at the time."

"His pictures are neglected," said Cecily, "but people who understand
them say they have great value. If he has anything accepted by the
Academy, it is sure to be hung out of sight. I think he is wrong to
exhibit there at all. Academies are foolish things, and always give
most encouragement to the men who are worth least. When there is talk
of such subjects, I never lose an opportunity of mentioning Mr.
Mallard's name, and telling all I can about his work. Some day I shall,
perhaps, be able to help him. I will insist on every friend of mine who
buys pictures at all possessing at least one of Mr. Mallard's; then,
perhaps, he will condescend to talk with me of serious things."

She added the last sentence merrily, meeting Miriam's look with the
frankest eyes.

"Does Mrs. Lessingham hold the same opinion?" Miriam inquired.

"Oh yes! Aunt, of course, knows far more about art than I do, and she
thinks very highly indeed of Mr. Mallard. Not long ago she met M.
Lambert at a friend's house in Paris--the French critic who has just
been writing about English landscape--and he mentioned Mr. Mallard with
great respect. That was splendid, wasn't it?"

She spoke with joyous spiritedness. However modern, Cecily, it was
clear, had caught nothing of the disease of pococurantism. Into
whatever pleased her or enlisted her sympathies, she threw all the glad
energies of her being. The scornful remark on the Royal Academy was,
one could see, not so much a mere echo of advanced opinion, as a piece
of championship in a fr