 made her own was impossible, and he had no faculty even for the
commonest kind of impersonal talk. He devoted himself to his dinner in amiable
silence, enjoying the consciousness that nearly an hour of occupation was before
him, and that bed-time lay at no hopeless distance.
    Moreover, there was a boy - yet it is doubtful whether he should be so
described; for, though he numbered rather less than sixteen years, experience
had already made him blasé. He sat beside his mother, a Mrs. Strangwich. For
Master Strangwich the ordinary sources of youthful satisfaction did not exist;
he talked with the mature on terms of something more than equality, and always
gave them the impression that they had still much to learn. This objectionable
youth had long since been everywhere and seen everything. The naïveté of finding
pleasure in novel circumstances moved him to a pitying surprise. Speak of the
glories of the Bay of Naples, and he would remark, with hands in pockets and
head thrown back, that he thought a good deal more of the Golden Horn. If
climate came up for discussion, he gave an impartial vote, based on much
personal observation, in favour of Southern California. His parents belonged to
the race of modern nomads, those curious beings who are reviving an early stage
of civilization as an ingenious expedient for employing money and time which
they have not intelligence enough to spend in a settled habitat. It was already
noticed in the pension that Master Strangwich paid somewhat marked attentions to
Madeline Denyer; there was no knowing what might come about if their
acquaintance should be prolonged for a few weeks.
    But Madeline had at present something else to think about than the
condescending favour of Master Strangwich. As the guests entered the
dining-room, Mrs. Gluck informed Mrs. Denyer that the English artist who was
looked for had just arrived, and would in a few minutes join the company. »Mr.
Marsh is here,« said Mrs. Denyer aloud to her daughters, in a tone of no
particular satisfaction. Madeline glanced at Miss Doran, who, however, did not
seem to have heard the remark.
    And, whilst the guests were still busy with their soup, Mr. Clifford Marsh
presented himself. Within the doorway he stood for a moment surveying the room;
with placid eye he selected Mrs. Denyer, and approached her just to shake hands;
her three daughters received from him the same attention. Words Mr. Marsh had
none, but he smiled as smiles the man conscious of attracting merited
observation. Indeed, it was impossible not to regard Mr. Marsh with curiosity
