"And now," said Eleanor, "appoint a day for us to come and see your studio."
"You shall appoint it yourself."
"Then let us say to-morrow."
In speaking, Eleanor turned interrogatively to Miriam, who, however, said nothing. Mallard addressed her.
"May I hope that you will come, Mrs. Baske?"
His tone was, to her ear, as unsatisfying as could be; he seemed to put the question under constraint of civility. But, of course, only one answer was possible.
So next day this visit was paid; Spence also came. Mallard had made preparations. A tea-service which would not have misbecome Eleanor's own drawing-room stood in readiness. Pictures were examined, tea was taken, artistic matters were discussed.
And Miriam went away in uttermost discontent. She felt that henceforth her relations with Mallard were established on a perfectly conventional basis. Her dreams were left behind in Rome. Here was no Vatican in which to idle and hope for possible meetings. The holiday was over. Everything seemed of a sudden so flat and commonplace, that even her jealousy of Cecily faded for lack of sustenance.
Then she received a letter from Cecily herself, announcing return within a week. From Reuben she had even yet heard nothing.
A few days later, as she was reading in her room between tea and dinner-time, Eleanor came in; she held an evening newspaper, and looked very grave—more than grave. Miriam, as soon as their eyes met, went pale with misgiving.