ons; she
smiled or looked appropriately serious in listening to the three
stories. But this could not go on indefinitely, and for more than a
week now conversation between the two had been a trying matter. For Mr.
Musselwhite to sustain a dialogue on such topics as Barbara had made
her own was impossible, and he had no faculty even for the commonest
kind of impersonal talk. He devoted himself to his dinner in amiable
silence, enjoying the consciousness that nearly an hour of occupation
was before him, and that bed-time lay at no hopeless distance.

Moreover, there was a boy--yet it is doubtful whether he should be so
described; for, though he numbered rather less than sixteen years,
experience had already made him _blase_. He sat beside his mother, a
Mrs. Strangwich. For Master Strangwich the ordinary sources of youthful
satisfaction did not exist; he talked with the mature on terms of
something more than equality, and always gave them the impression that
they had still much to learn. This objectionable youth had long since
been everywhere and seen everything. The _naivete_ of finding pleasure
in novel circumstances moved him to a pitying surprise. Speak of the
glories of the Bay of Naples, and he would remark, with hands in
pockets and head thrown back, that he thought a good deal more of the
Golden Horn. If climate came up for discussion, he gave an impartial
vote, based on much personal observation, in favour of Southern
California. His parents belonged to the race of modern nomads, those
curious beings who are reviving an early stage of civilization as an
ingenious expedient for employing money and time which they have not
intelligence enough to spend in a settled habitat. It was already
noticed in the _pension_ that Master Strangwich paid somewhat marked
attentions to Madeline Denyer; there was no knowing what might come
about if their acquaintance should be prolonged for a few weeks.

But Madeline had at present something else to think about than the
condescending favour of Master Strangwich. As the guests entered the
dining-room, Mrs. Gluck informed Mrs. Denyer that the English artist
who was looked for had just arrived, and would in a few minutes join
the company. "Mr. Marsh is here," said Mrs. Denyer aloud to her
daughters, in a tone of no particular satisfaction. Madeline glanced at
Miss Doran, who, however, did not seem to have heard the remark.

And, whilst the guests were still busy with their soup, Mr. C