ed her home, and with Mallard's knowledge, if not at his
persuasion.

She thought of Reuben with all but hatred. He was the cause of the
despair which had come upon her. The abhorrence with which she regarded
his vices--no whit less strong for all her changed habits of
thought--blended now with the sense of personal injury; this only had
been lacking to destroy what natural tenderness remained in her feeling
towards him. Cecily she hated, without the power of condemning her as
she formerly would have done. The old voice of conscience was not mute,
but Miriam turned from it with sullen scorn. If Cecily declared her
marriage at an end, what fault could reason find with her? If she acted
undisguisedly as a free woman, how was she to blame? Reuben's praise of
her might still keep its truth. And the unwilling conviction of this
was one of Miriam's sharpest torments. She would have liked to regard
her with disdainful condemnation, or a fugitive wife, a dishonoured
woman. But the power of sincerely judging thus was gone. Reuben had
taunted her amiss.

Presently she left her room and went to seek Eleanor. Mrs. Spence was
writing; she laid down her pen, and glanced at Miriam, but did not
speak.

"Cecily has left her home," Miriam said, with matter-of-fact brevity.

Eleanor stood up.

"Parted from him?"

"It seems be didn't go to the house till late last night. She had left
in the afternoon, and did not come back."

"Then they have not met?".

"No."

"And had Cecily heard?"

"There's no knowing."

"Of course, she has gone to Mrs. Lessingham."

"I think not," replied Miriam, turning away.

"Why?"

But Miriam would give no definite answer. Neither did she hint at the
special grounds of her suspicion. Presently she left the room as she
had entered, dispirited and indisposed for talk.

Elgar walked on to the studios. He found Mallard's door, and was
beginning to ascend the stairs, when the artist himself appeared at the
top of them, on the point of going out. He recognized his visitor with
a grim movement of brows and lips, and without speaking turned back.
Reuben reached the door, which remained open, and entered. Mallard, who
stood there in the ante-room, looked at him inquiringly.

"I want a few minutes' talk with you, if you please," said Elgar.

"Come in."

They passed into the studio. The last time they had seen each other was
more than three years ago, at Naples; both showed something of
curiosity, ov