"I do so."
"But not with modern detachment," said Spence, smiling.
"Be hanged with your modernity! I believe myself distinctly the more modern of the two."
"Not with regard to women. When you marry, you will be a rigid autocrat, and make no pretence about it. You don't think of women as independent beings, who must save or lose themselves on their own responsibility. You are not willing to trust them alone."
"Well, perhaps you are right."
"Of course I am. Come and dine at the hotel. I think Seaborne will be there."
"No, thank you."
Mallard had waited but a few minutes in the court of the Palazzo Borghese next morning, when Miriam joined him. There was some constraint on both sides. Miriam looked as if she did not wish yesterday's conversation to be revived in their manner of meeting. Her "Good-morning, Mr. Mallard," had as little reference as possible to the fact of this being an appointment. The artist was in quite another mood than that of yesterday; his smile was formal, and he seemed indisposed for conversation.
"I have the permesso," he said, leading at once to the door of the gallery.
They sauntered about the first room, exchanging a few idle remarks. In the second, a woman past the prime of life was copying a large picture. They looked at her work from a distance, and Miriam asked if it was well done.