sced in temporarily, for business reasons--what had that in
common with villainy like Morrison's? An awkward affair, no doubt; and
he had been a fool to slip into it. But in a few weeks he would put it
right--come what would.

As to the debt--he tried to fight against a feeling of
deliverance--but clearly he need be in no hurry to pay it. He had been
living in dread of Morrison's appearing in Bernard Street to claim
his bond--revealing Phoebe's existence perhaps to ears unprepared--and
laying greedy hands upon the 'Genius Loci.' It would have been hard to
keep him off it--unless Lord Findon had promptly come forward--and it
would have been odious to yield it to him. 'Now I shall take my time.'
Of course, ultimately, he would repay the money to Mrs. Morrison and
Bella. But better, even in their interests, to wait a while, till
there could be no question of any other claim to it.

So from horror he passed to a personal relief, of which he was rather
ashamed, and then again to a real uneasy pity for the wife and for
the vulgar daughter who had so bitterly resented his handling of her
charms. He remembered the note in which she had acknowledged the final
delivery of her portrait. In obedience to Morrison's suggestion, he
had kept it by him a few days; and then, either unable or proudly
unwilling to alter it, he had returned it to its owner. Whereupon a
furious note from Miss Bella, which--knowing that her father took no
account of her tempers--Fenwick had torn up with a laugh. It was clear
that she had heard of her father's invitation to him to 'beautify' it,
and when the picture reappeared unaltered she took it as a direct and
personal insult--a sign that he disliked her and meant to humiliate
her. It was an odd variety of the _spretae injuria formae_. Fenwick
had never been in the least penitent for his behaviour. The picture
was true, clever--and the best he could do. It was no painter's
business to endow Miss Bella with beauty, if she did not possess it.
As a piece of paint, the picture _had_ beauty--if she had only eyes to
find it out.

Poor girl!--what husband now would venture on such a termagant
wife?--penniless too, and disgraced! He would like to help her, and
her mother--for Morrison's sake. Stirred by a fleeting impulse, he
began to scheme how he might become their benefactor, as Morrison had
been his.

Then, as he raised his eyes from the path--with a rush of delight
he noticed the flood of afternoon sunli