He had a cane, and kept slashing with it at the green growths by his feet. When he missed his aim at any particular object, he stopped and struck again, more fiercely. "Does Cecily come to see you?" was his next question, uttered as if unconcernedly. "No." "But you know about her? You know where she is?" "Yes." "Tell me what you know, Miriam. How is she living?" "I had much rather not speak of her. I don't feel that I have any right to." "Why not?" he asked quickly, standing still. "What is there to hide? Why had you rather not speak?" "For reasons that you understand well enough. What is it to you how she lives?" He searched her face, like one suspecting a studied ambiguity. His eyes, which were a little bloodshot, grew larger and more turbid; a repulsive animalism came out in all his features. "Do tell me what you know, Miriam," he pleaded. "Of course it's nothing to me; I know that. I have no wish to interfere with her; I promise you to do nothing of the kind; I promise solemnly!" "You promise?" she exclaimed, not harshly, but with stern significance. "How can you use such words? Under what circumstances could I put faith in a promise of yours, Reuben?" He struck violently at the trunk of a tree, and his cane broke; then he flung it away, still more passionately. "You're right enough. What do I care? I lie more often than I tell the truth. I have a sort of pride in it. If a man is to be a liar, let him be a thorough one.--Do you know why I smashed the stick? I had a devilish temptation to strike you across the face with it. That would have been nice, wouldn't it?" "You had better go your own way, Reuben, and let me go mine." She drew apart, and not without actual fear of him, so brutal he looked, and so strangely coarse had his utterance become. "You needn't be afraid. If I _had_ hit you, I'd have gone away and killed myself; so perhaps it's a pity I didn't. I felt a savage hatred of you, and just because I wanted you to take my hand and be gentle with me. I suppose you can't understand that? You haven't gone deep enough into life." His voice choked, and Miriam saw tears start from his eyes. "I hope I never may," she answered gently. "Have done with all that, and talk to me like yourself, Reuben." "Talk! I've had enough of talking. I want to rest somewhere, and be quiet." "Then come home with me." "Dare you take me?" "There's no question of daring. Come with me, if you wish to." They walked to the house almost in silence. It was noon; Mallard was busy in his studio. Having spoken a word with him, Miriam rejoined her brother in the sitting-room. He had thrown himself on a couch, and there he lay without speaking until luncheon-time, when Mallard's entrance aroused him. The artist could not be cordial, but he exercised a decent hospitality. In the afternoon, brother and sister again sat for a long time without conversing. When Reuben began to speak, it was in a voice softened by the influences of the last few hours.