"My dear fellow, you are a halter between two opinions. You can't make up your mind in which direction to look. You are a sort of Janus, with anxiety on both faces." "There's a good deal of truth in that," admitted the artist, with a growl. "Get on with your painting, and whatever else of practical you have in mind. Leave philosophy to men of large leisure and placid pulses, like myself. Accept the inevitable." "I do so." "But not with modern detachment," said Spence, smiling. "Be hanged with your modernity! I believe myself distinctly the more modern of the two." "Not with regard to women. When you marry, you will be a rigid autocrat, and make no pretence about it. You don't think of women as independent beings, who must save or lose themselves on their own responsibility. You are not willing to trust them alone." "Well, perhaps you are right." "Of course I am. Come and dine at the hotel. I think Seaborne will be there." "No, thank you." Mallard had waited but a few minutes in the court of the Palazzo Borghese next morning, when Miriam joined him. There was some constraint on both sides. Miriam looked as if she did not wish yesterday's conversation to be revived in their manner of meeting. Her "Good-morning, Mr. Mallard," had as little reference as possible to the fact of this being an appointment. The artist was in quite another mood than that of yesterday; his smile was formal, and he seemed indisposed for conversation. "I have the _permesso_," he said, leading at once to the door of the gallery. They sauntered about the first room, exchanging a few idle remarks. In the second, a woman past the prime of life was copying a large picture. They looked at her work from a distance, and Miriam asked if it was well done. "What do you think yourself?" asked Mallard. "It seems to me skilful and accurate, but I know that perhaps it is neither one nor the other." He pointed out several faults, which she at once recognized. "I wonder I could not see them at first That confirms me in distrust of myself. I am as likely as not to admire a thing that is utterly worthless." "As likely as not--no; at least, I think not. But of course your eye is untrained, and you have no real knowledge to go upon. You can judge an original picture sentimentally, and your sentiment will not be wholly misleading. You can't judge a copy technically, but I think you have more than average observation. How would you like to spend your life like this copyist?" "I would give my left hand to have her skill in my right." "You would?" "I should be able to _do_ something--something definite and tolerably good." "Why, so you can already; one thing in particular." "What is that?" "Learn your own deficiencies; a thing that most people neither will nor can. Look at this Francia, and tell me your thoughts about it." She examined the picture for a minute or two. Then, without moving her eyes, she murmured: "I can say nothing that is worth saying."