admiration.

"I wish I could have overheard the interview in Miriam's room."

"I never felt more curiosity about anything. Pity one is not a
psychological artist. I should have stolen to the keyhole and committed
eavesdropping with a glow of self-approval."

"I half understand our friend Mallard."

"So do I, Ned."

They looked at each other and smiled significantly.

That evening Spence again had a walk with the artist. He returned to
the villa alone, and only just in time to dress for dinner. Guests were
expected, Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw of Manchester, old acquaintances of the
Spences and of Miriam. When it had become known that Mrs. Baske,
advised to pass the winter in a mild climate, was about to accept an
invitation from her cousin and go by sea to Naples, the Bradshaws, to
the astonishment of all their friends, offered to accompany her. It was
the first time that either of them had left England, and they seemed
most unlikely people to be suddenly affected with a zeal for foreign
travel. Miriam gladly welcomed their proposal, and it was put into
execution.

When Spence entered the room his friends had already arrived. Mr.
Bradshaw stood in the attitude familiar to him when on his own
hearthrug, his back turned to that part of the wall where in England
would have been a fireplace, and one hand thrust into the pocket of his
evening coat.

"I tell you what it is, Spence!" he exclaimed, "I'm very much afraid I
shall be committing an assault. Certainly I shall if I don't soon learn
some good racy Italian. I must make out a little list of sentences, and
get you or Mrs. Spence to translate them. Such as 'Do you take me for a
fool?' or 'Be off, you scoundrel!' or 'I'll break every bone in your
body!' That's the kind of thing practically needed in Naples, I find."

"Been in conflict with coachmen again?" asked Spence, laughing.

"Slightly! Never got into such a helpless rage in my life. Two fellows
kept up with me this afternoon for a couple of miles or so. Now, what
makes me so mad is the assumption of these blackguards that I don't
know my own mind. I go out for a stroll, and the first cabby I pass
wants to take me to Pozzuoli or Vesuvius--or Jericho, for aught I know.
It's no use showing him that I haven't the slightest intention of going
to any such place. What the deuce! does the fellow suppose he can
persuade me or badger me into doing what I've no mind to do? Does he
take me for an ass? It's the insult of t