"Shall you go to the San Carlo during the winter?"
"The San Carlo?" she asked inquiringly.
"The opera."
Mallard was in a strange mood. Whenever he looked ahead at Cecily, he had a miserable longing which crushed his heart down, down; in struggling against this, he felt that Mrs. Baske's proximity was an aid, but that it would be still more so if he could move her to any unusual self-revelation. He had impulses to offend her, to irritate her prejudices—anything, so she should but be moved. This question that fell from him was mild in comparison with some of the subjects that pressed on his harassed brain.
"I don't go to theatres," Miriam replied distantly.
"That is losing much pleasure."
"The word has very different meanings."
She was roused. Mallard observed with a perverse satisfaction the scorn implied in this rejoinder. He noted that her features had more decided beauty than when placid.
"I imagine," he resumed, smiling at her, "that the life of an artist must seem to you frivolous, if not something worse. I mean an artist in the sense of a painter."
"I cannot think it the highest kind of life," Miriam replied, also smiling, but ominously.