Between that departure and this present meeting, Mallard saw her only twice; but the girl wrote to him with some regularity.

These letters grew more and more delightful.
Cecily addressed herself with exquisite frankness as to an old friend, old in both senses of the word; collected, they made a history of her rapidly growing mind such as the shy artist might have glorified in possessing.

In reality, he did nothing of the kind; he wished the letters would not come and disturb him in his work.

He sent gruff little answers, over which Cecily laughed, as so characteristic.
Yes, there was a distinct connection between those homely memories and picturings which took him in thought to Sowerby Bridge, and the image of Cecily Doran which had caused him to waste all this time in Naples.
They represented two worlds, in both of which he had some part; but it was only too certain with which of them he was the more closely linked.
What but mere accident put him in contact with the world which was Cecily's?
Through her aunt she had aristocratic relatives; her wealth made her a natural member of what is called society; her beauty and her brilliancy marked her to be one of society's ornaments.

What could she possibly be to him, Ross Mallard, landscape-painter of small if any note, as unaristocratic in mind and person as any one that breathed?
To put the point with uncompromising plainness, and therefore in all its absurdity, how could he possibly imagine Cecily Doran called Mrs.
Mallard?
The thing was flagrantly, grossly, palpably absurd.