"Oh no; he is still in Rome. He said that he would most likely return when the others did." "How do he and Cecily get on together?" "They seemed to be quite friendly." "Indeed? Does he go about with them?" "I don't know." "But did he when you were there?" "I think he was with them at the Vatican once." Elgar heard it with indifference. He was silent for a minute or two; then, quitting his chair, asked: "Had you much talk with her?" "With Cecily? We were living together, you know." "Yes, but had she much to tell you? Did she talk about how things were going with us--what I was doing, and so on?" He was never still. Now he threw himself into another chair, and strummed with his fingers on the arm of it. "She told me about your work." "And showed that she took very little interest in it, no doubt?" Miriam gazed at him. "Why do you think that?" "Oh, that's tolerably well understood between us." Again he rose, and paced with his hands in his pockets. "It was a misfortune that Clarence died. Now she has nothing to occupy herself with. She doesn't seem to have any idea of employing her time. It was bad enough when the child was living, but since then--" He spoke as though the hints fell from him involuntarily; he wished to be understood as implying no censure, but merely showing an unfortunate state of things. When he broke off, it was with a shrug and a shake of the head. "But I suppose she reads a good deal?" said Miriam; "and has friends to visit?" "She seems to care very little about reading nowadays. And as for the friends--yes, she is always going to some house or other. Perhaps it would have been better if she had had no friends at all." "You mean that they are objectionable people?" "Oh no; I don't mean to say anything of that kind. But--well, never mind, we won't talk about it." He threw up an arm, and began to pace the floor again. His nervousness was increasing. In a few moments he broke out in the same curious tone, which was half complaining, half resigned.