ere finished--what would become of Phoebe and the child?

As he thought of Phoebe, suddenly his heart melted within him. Was
she, too, hating the hours? As he bowed his head on his arms a few
hot, unwilling tears forced themselves into his eyes. Had he been
unkind and harsh to her?--his poor little Phoebe! An imperious impulse
seemed to sweep him back into her arms. She was his own, his very own;
one flesh with him; of the same clay, the same class, the same customs
and ideals. Let him only recover her, and his child--and live his own
life as he pleased. No more dependence on the moods of fine people.
He hated them all! Clearly he had offended Madame de Pastourelles.
Perhaps she would not sit again--the portrait would be thrown on his
hands--because he had not behaved with proper deference to her spoilt
and petted favourite.

Involuntarily he looked up. The lamp-light fell on the portrait.

There she sat, the delicate, ethereal being, her gentle brow bent
forward, her eyes fixed upon him. He perceived, as though for the
first time, what an image of melancholy grace it was which he had
built up there. He had done it, as it were, without knowing--had
painted something infinitely pathetic and noble without realising it
in the doing.

As he looked, his irritation died away, and something wholly
contradictory took its place. He felt a rush of self-pity, and then of
trust. What if he called on her to help him--unveiled himself to
this kind and charming woman--confessed to her his remorse about
Phoebe--his secret miseries and anxieties--the bitterness of his
envies and ambitions? Would she not rain balm upon him--quiet
him--guide him?

He yearned towards her, as he sat there in the semi-darkness--seeking
the _ewig-weibliche_ in the sweetness of her face--without a touch of
passion--as a Catholic might yearn towards his Madonna. Her slight and
haughty farewell showed that he had tried her patience--had behaved
like an ungenerous cur. But he must and would propitiate her--win
her friendship for himself and Phoebe. The weakness of the man threw
itself strangely, instinctively, on the moral strength of the woman;
as though in this still young and winning creature he might recover
something of what he had lost in childhood, when his mother died. He
mocked at his own paradox, but it held him. That very night would
he write to her; not yet about Phoebe--not yet!--but letting her
understand, at least, that he was _not_ ungratefu