l look at them again
to-morrow. You can form an idea of their character."

They were small water-colours, the work--as each declared in fantastic
signature--of one Clifford Marsh, spoken of by the Denyers, and by
Madeline in particular, as a personal friend. He was expected to arrive
any day in Naples. The subjects, Cecily had been informed, were natural
scenery; the style, impressionist. Impressionism was no novel term to
Cecily, and in Paris she had had her attention intelligently directed
to good work in that kind; she knew, of course, that, like every other
style, it must be judged with reference to its success in achieving the
end proposed. But the first glance at the first of Mr. Marsh's
productions perplexed her. A study on the Roman Campagna, said
Madeline. It might just as well, for all Cecily could determine, have
been a study of cloud-forms, or of a storm at sea, or of anything, or
of nothing; nor did there seem to be any cogent reason why it should be
looked at one way up rather than the other. Was this genius, or
impudence?

"You don't know the Campagna, yet," remarked Madeline, finding that the
other kept silence. "Of course, you can't appreciate the marvellous
truthfulness of this impression; but it gives you new emotions, doesn't
it?"

Mrs. Lessingham would have permitted herself to reply with a pointed
affirmative. Cecily was too considerate of others' feelings for that,
yet had not the habit of smooth falsehood.

"I am not very familiar with this kind of work," she said. "Please let
me just look and think, and tell me your own thoughts about each."

Madeline was not displeased. Already she had discovered that in most
directions Miss Doran altogether exceeded her own reach, and that it
was not safe to talk conscious nonsense to her. The tone of modesty
seemed unaffected, and, as Madeline had reasons for trying to believe
in Clifford Marsh, it gratified her to feel that here at length she
might tread firmly and hold her own. The examination of the drawings
proceeded, with the result that Cecily's original misgiving was
strongly confirmed. What would Ross Mallard say? Mallard's own work was
not of the impressionist school, and he might suffer prejudice to
direct him; but she had a conviction of how his remarks would sound
were this portfolio submitted to him. Genius--scarcely. And if not,
then assuredly the other thing, and that in flagrant degree.

Most happily, the dinner-bell came with its perem