"Indeed, I wish he would. But he distinctly told us that he has no time. He is going to Amalfi in a few days, to work. I begged him at least to go to Pompeii with us, but he frowned--as he so often does--and seemed unwilling to be persuaded; so I said no more. There again, I feel sure he was afraid of being annoyed by trifling talk in such places. But one mustn't judge an artist like other men. To be sure, anything I could say or think would be trivial compared with what is in _his_ mind." "But isn't it rather discourteous?" Miriam observed impartially. "Oh, I could never think of it in that way! An artist is privileged; he must defend his time and his sensibilities. The common terms of society have no application to him. Don't you feel that, Miriam?" "I know so little of art and artists. But such a claim seems to me very strange." Cecily laughed. "This is one of a thousand things we will talk about. Art is the grandest thing in the world; it means everything that is strong and beautiful--statues, pictures, poetry, music. How could one live without art? The artist is born a prince among men. What has he to do with the rules by which common people must direct their lives? Before long, you will feel this as deeply as I do, Miriam. We are in Italy, Italy!" "Shall we go back to the others?" Miriam suggested, in a voice which contrasted curiously with that exultant cry. "Yes; it is time." Cecily's eyes fell on the plans of the chapel, which were still lying open. "What is this?" she asked. "Something in Naples? Oh no!" "It's nothing," said Miriam, carelessly. "Come, Cecily." The visitors took their leave just as the midday cannon boomed from Sant' Elmo. They had promised to come and dine in a day or two. After their departure, Miriam showed as little disposition to make comments as she had to indulge in expectation before their arrival. Eleanor and her husband put less restraint upon themselves. "Heavens!" cried Spence, when they were alone; "what astounding capacity of growth was in that child!" "She is a swift and beautiful creature!" said Eleanor, in a warm undertone characteristic of her when she expressed admiration. "I wish I could have overheard the interview in Miriam's room." "I never felt more curiosity about anything. Pity one is not a psychological artist. I should have stolen to the keyhole and committed eavesdropping with a glow of self-approval." "I half understand our friend Mallard." "So do I, Ned." They looked at each other and smiled significantly.