"No, you do not. I mean to say that I believe your brother is not really pleased with the kind of life he has too long been leading; that to please himself he must begin serious work of some kind." "That is playing with words, and on a subject ill-chosen for it." "Mrs. Baske, do you seriously believe that Reuben Elgar can be made a man of steady purpose by considerations that have primary reference to any one or anything but himself?" She made no answer. "I am not depreciating him. The same will apply (if you are content to face the truth) to many a man whom you would esteem. I am sorry that I have lost your confidence, but that is better than to keep it by repeating idle formulas that the world's experience has outgrown." Miriam pondered, then said quietly: "We have different thoughts, Mr. Mallard, and speak different languages." "But we know a little more of each other than we did. For my part, I feel it a gain." During the rest of the drive they scarcely spoke at all; the few sentences exchanged were mere remarks upon the scenery. Both carriages drew up at the gate of the villa, where Miriam and Mallard alighted. Spence, rising, called to the latter. "Will you accompany Miss Doran the rest of the way?" "Certainly." Mallard took his seat in the other carriage; and, as it drove off, he looked back. Miriam was gazing after them. Cecily was a little tired, and not much disposed to converse. Her companion being still less so, they reached the Mergellina without having broached any subject. "It has been an unforgettable day," Cecily said, as they parted. CHAPTER VI CAPTIVE TRAVELLERS He had taken leave of the Spences and Mrs. Baske, yet was not sure that he should go. He had said good-bye to Mrs. Lessingham and to Cecily herself, yet made no haste to depart. It drew on to evening, and he sat idly in his room in Casa Rolandi, looking at his traps half packed. Then of a sudden up he started. "Imbecile! Insensate! I give you fifteen minutes to be on your way to the station. Miss the next train--and sink to the level of common men!" Shirts, socks--straps, locks; adieux, tips--horses, whips! Clatter through the Piazzetta Mondragone; down at breakneck speed to the Toledo; across the Piazza del Municipio; a good-bye to the public scriveners sitting at their little tables by the San Carlo; sharp round the corner, and along by the Porto Grande with its throng of vessels. All the time he sings a tune to himself, caught up in the streets of the tuneful city; an air lilting to the refrain-- "Io ti voglio bene assaje E tu non pienz' a me!"