"Miss Doran's wish is, that no further step shall be taken by either of you until her guardian, Mr. Mallard, has been communicated with." "She will not see me?" "She thinks it better neither to see you nor to write. I am bound to tell you that this is the result of my advice. Her own intention was to do as you request in this letter." "What harm would there have been in that, Mrs. Lessingham? Why mayn't I see her?" "I really think Miss Doran must be allowed to act as seems best to her. It is quite enough that I tell you what she has decided." "But that is not her decision," broke out Elgar, moving impetuously. "That is simply the result of your persuasion, of your authority. Why may I not see her?" "For reasons which would be plain enough to any but a very thoughtless young gentleman. I can say no more." Her caustic tone was not agreeable. Elgar winced under it, and had much ado to restrain himself from useless vehemence. "Do you intend to write to Mr. Mallard to-day?" he asked. "I will write to-day." Expostulation and entreaty seemed of no avail; Elgar recognized the situation, and with a grinding of his teeth kept down the horrible pain he suffered. His only comfort was that Mallard would assuredly come post-haste; he would arrive by to-morrow evening. But two days of this misery! Mrs. Lessingham was gratified with his look as he departed; she had supplied him with abundant matter for speculation, yet had fulfilled her promise to Cecily. She finished her letter, then went to Cecily's room. The girl sat unoccupied, and listened without replying. That day she took her meals in private, scarcely pretending to eat. Her face kept its flush, and her hands remained feverishly hot. Till late at night she sat in the same chair, now and then opening a book, but unable to read; she spoke only a word or two, when it was necessary. The same on the day that followed. Seldom moving, seldomer speaking; she suffered and waited. CHAPTER XI THE APPEAL TO AUTHORITY "Hic intus homo verus certus optumus recumbo, Publius Octavius Rufus, decuno." Mallard stood reading this inscription, graven on an ancient sarcophagus preserved in the cathedral of Amalfi. A fool, probably, that excellent Rufus--he said to himself,--but what a happy fool! Unborn as yet, or to him unknown, the faith that would have bidden him write himself a miserable sinner; what he deemed himself in life, what perchance his friends and neighbours deemed him, why not declare it upon the marble when he rested from all his virtues? "Here lie I, Ross Mallard; who can say no good of myself, yet have as little right to say ill; who had no faith whereby to direct my steps, yet often felt that some such was needful; who spent all my strength on a task which I knew to be vain; who suffered much and joyed rarely; whose happiest day was his last." Somehow like that would it run, if he were to write his own epitaph at present.