and trembled so
much that she was obliged to pause. At the same moment there sounded a
tap at the door, and, on Mrs. Baske's giving permission, a lady
entered. This was Mrs. Spence, a cousin of the young widow; she and her
husband had an apartment here in the Villa Sannazaro, and were able to
devote certain rooms to the convenience of their relative during her
stay at Naples. Her age was about thirty; she had a graceful figure, a
manner of much refinement, and a bright, gentle, intellectual face,
which just now bore an announcement of news.

"They have arrived!"

"Already?" replied the other, in a tone of civil interest.

"They decided not to break the journey after Genoa. Cecily and Mrs.
Lessingham are too tired to do anything but get settled in their rooms,
but Mr. Mallard has come to tell us."

Miriam laid down her pen, and asked in the same voice as before:

"Shall I come?"

"If you are not too busy." And Mrs. Spence added, with a smile, "I
should think you must have a certain curiosity to see each other, after
so long an acquaintance at secondhand."

"I will come in a moment."

Mrs. Spence left the room. For a minute Miriam sat reflecting, then
rose. In moving towards the door she chanced to see her image in a
mirror--two of a large size adorned the room--and it checked her step;
she regarded herself gravely, and passed a smoothing hand over the dark
hair above her temples.

By a corridor she reached her friends' sitting-room, where Mrs. Spence
sat in the company of two gentlemen. The elder of these was Edward
Spence. His bearded face, studious of cast and small-featured, spoke a
placid, self-commanding character; a lingering smile, and the pleasant
wrinkles about his brow, told of a mind familiar with many by-ways of
fancy and reflection. His companion, a man of five-and-thirty, had a
far more striking countenance. His complexion was of the kind which
used to be called adust--burnt up with inner fires; his visage was long
and somewhat harshly designed, very apt, it would seem, to the
expression of hitter ironies or stern resentments, but at present
bright with friendly pleasure. He had a heavy moustache, but no beard;
his hair tumbled in disorder. To matters of costume he evidently gave
little thought, for his clothes, though of the kind a gentleman would
wear in travelling, had seen their best days, and the waistcoat even
lacked one of its buttons; his black necktie was knotted into an
indescribable s