The Mallards were seldom in town. Excepting the house at Chelsea, their visits were only to two or three painters, who lived much as Mallard had done before his marriage. In these studios Miriam at first inspired a little awe; but as her understanding of the art-world increased, she adapted herself to its habits in so far as she could respect them, and where she could not, the restraint of her presence was recognized as an influence towards better things. At the Spences', one day in April, they met Seaborne. They had heard of his being in London again (after a year mostly spent in Paris), but had not as yet seen him. He was invited to visit them, and promised to do so before long. A month or more passed, however, and the promise remained unfulfilled. At Chelsea the same report was made of him; he seemed to be living in seclusion. In mid-May, as Miriam was walking by herself at a little distance from home, she was overtaken by a man who had followed her over the heath. When the step paused at her side, she turned and saw Reuben. "Will you speak to me?" he said. "Why not, Reuben?" She gave him her hand. "That is kinder than I hoped to find you. But I see how changed you are. You are so happy that you can afford to be indulgent to a poor devil." "Why have you made yourself a poor devil!" "Why, why, why! Pooh! Why is anything as it is? Why are you what you are, after being what you were?" It pained her to look at him. At length she discerned unmistakably the fatal stamp of degradation. When he came to her two years ago, his face was yet unbranded; now the darkening spirit declared itself. Even his clothing told the same tale, in spite of its being such as he had always worn. "Where are you living?" she asked. "Anywhere; nowhere. I have no home." "Why don't you make one for yourself?" "It's all very well for you to talk like that. Every one doesn't get a home so easily.--Does old Mallard make you a good husband?" "Need you ask that?" Miriam returned, averting her eyes, and walking slowly on. "You have to thank me for it, Miriam, in part." She looked at him in surprise. "It's true. It was I who first led him to think about you, and interested him in you. We were going from Pompeii to Sorrento--how many years ago? thirty, forty?--and I talked about you a great deal. I told him that I felt convinced you could be saved, if only some strong man would take you by the hand. It led him to think about you; I am sure of it." Miriam had no reply to make. They walked on. "I didn't come to the house," he resumed presently, "because I thought it possible that the door might be shut in my face. Mallard would have wished to do so." "He wouldn't have welcomed you; but you were free to come in if you wished." "Have you thought it likely I might come some day?" "I expected, sooner or later, to hear from you."