"Let us call it lack of firmness. The fact is the same, and I feel very strongly that it laid an obligation on you. From that day you should have been truly a sister to Cecily. You should have given her every encouragement to confide in you. She loved you in those days, in spite of all differences. You should never have allowed this love to fail." Miriam kept her eyes on the floor. "I am afraid," he added, after a pause, "that you won't tell me why you cannot think kindly of her?" She hesitated, her lips moving uncertainly. "There _is_ a reason?" "I can't tell you." "I have no right to press you to do so. I will rather ask this--I asked it once before, and had no satisfactory answer--why did you allow me to think for a few days, in Italy, that you accepted my friendship and gave me yours in return, and then became so constrained in your manner to me that I necessarily thought I had given you offence?" She was silent. "That also you can't tell me?" She glanced at him--or rather, let her eyes pass over his face--with the old suggestion of defiance. Her firm-set lips gave no promise of answer. Mallard rose. "Then I must still wait. Some day you will tell me, I think." He held his hand to her, then turned away; but in a moment faced her again. "One word--a yes or no. Do you believe what I have told you? Do you believe it absolutely? Look at me, and answer." She flushed, and met his gaze almost as intensely as when he compelled her confession. "Do you put absolute faith in what I have said?" "I do." "That is something." He smiled very kindly, and so this dialogue of theirs ended. A few days later, the Spences gathered friends about their dinner-table. Mallard was of the invited. The necessity of donning society's uniform always drew many growls from him; he never felt at his ease in it, and had a suspicion that he looked ridiculous. Indeed it suited him but ill; it disguised the true man as he appeared in his rough travelling apparel, and in the soiled and venerable attire of the studio.