 becomes him; he must decide what. Let him have a few days
with us in Capri; then go, and so far recommend himself in our eyes. No one can
make him see that this is what his dignity - if nothing else - demands, except
yourself. Think of it, dear.«
    Cecily did think of it, long and anxiously. Thanks to Elgar, her meditations
had a dark background such as her own fancy would never have supplied. ...
    He knew not how sadly the image of him had been blurred in Cecily's mind,
the man who lay that night in his room overlooking the port. Whether such
ignorance were for his aid or his disadvantage, who shall venture to say?
    To a certain point, we may follow with philosophic curiosity, step by step,
the progress of mental anguish, but when that point is passed, analysis loses
its interest; the vocabulary of pain has exhausted itself, the phenomena already
noted do but repeat themselves with more rapidity, with more intensity - detail
is lost in the mere sense of throes. Perchance the mind is capable of suffering
worse than the fiercest pangs of hopeless love combined with jealousy; one would
not pretend to put a limit to the possibilities of human woe; but for Mallard,
at all events this night did the black flood of misery reach high-water mark.
    What joy in the world that does not represent a counterbalance of sorrow?
What blessedness poured upon one head but some other must therefore lie down
under malediction? We know that with the uttermost of happiness there is wont to
come a sudden blending of troublous humour. May it not be that the soul has
conceived a subtle sympathy with that hapless one but for whose sacrifice its
own elation were impossible?
 

                                  Chapter XIII

                                Echo and Prelude

At Villa Sannazaro, the posture of affairs was already understood. When Eleanor
Spence, casually calling at the pension, found that Cecily was unable to receive
visitors, she at the same time learnt from Mrs. Lessingham to what this
seclusion was due. The ladies had a singular little conversation, for Eleanor
was inwardly so amused at this speedy practical comment on Mrs. Lessingham's
utterances of the other day, that with difficulty she kept her countenance;
while Mrs. Lessingham herself, impelled to make the admission without delay,
that she might exhibit a philosophic acceptance of fact, had much ado to hide
her chagrin beneath the show of half-cynical frankness that became a woman of
the world. Eleanor - passably roguish within the limits of becoming mirth -
acted the scene to her husband, who laughed shamelessly
