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.
"As Miss Doran does," added Mallard, his eyes happening to catch Cecily's face as it looked backwards, and his tongue speaking recklessly.
"There are very few subjects on which Miss Doran and I think alike." He durst not pursue this; in his state of mind, the danger of committing some flagrant absurdity was too great.

The subject attracted him like an evil temptation, for he desired to have Miriam speak of Cecily.

But he mastered himself.
"The artist's life may be the highest of which a particular man is capable.

For instance, I think it is so in my own case." Miriam seemed about to keep silence again, but ultimately she spoke.
The voice suggested that upon her too there was a constraint of some kind.
"On what grounds do you believe that ?" His eyes sought her face rapidly.

Was she ironical at his expense?
That would be new light upon her mind, for hitherto she had seemed to him painfully literal.