ured tolerance. After all, London was pleasant; there
was some recognition of merit; and even something to be said for
Academies.

Then his picture began to hover before him. It was a big thing;
suppose it took him years? Well, there would be portraits to keep
him alive. Meanwhile it was true enough what he had said to Madame de
Pastourelles. As a _painter_ he had never been properly trained. His
values were uncertain; and he had none of the sureness of method which
men with half his talent had got out of study under a man like, say,
Carolus Duran.

Supposing now, he went to Paris for a year? No, no!--too many of
the Englishmen who went to Paris lost their individuality and became
third-rate Frenchmen. He would puzzle out things for himself--stick to
his own programme and ideas.

English poetic feeling, combined with as much of French technique as
it could assimilate--there was the line of progress. Not the technique
of these clever madmen--Manet, Degas, Monet, and the rest--with the
mean view of life of some, and the hideous surface of others. No!--but
the Barbizon men--and Mother Nature, first and foremost! Beauty too,
beauty of idea and selection--not mere beauty of paint, to which
everything else--line, modelling, construction--was to be vilely
sacrificed.

In his exaltation he began an imaginary article denouncing the
Impressionists, spouting it aloud as he went along; so that the
passers-by caught a word or two, through the traffic, now and then,
and turned to look, astonished, at the handsome, gesticulating fellow
in the hansom. Till he stopped abruptly, first to laugh at himself,
and then to chuckle over the thought of Phoebe, and the presents he
had just bought.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, at the very moment, probably, that Fenwick was in Peter
Robinson's shop, an omnibus coming from Euston passed through Russell
Square, and a woman, volubly advised by the conductor, alighted from
it at the corner of Bernard Street. She was very tall and slender; her
dress was dusty and travel-stained, and as she left the omnibus she
drew down a thickly spotted veil over a weary face. She walked quickly
down Bernard Street, looking at the numbers, and stopped before the
door of Fenwick's lodgings.

The door was opened by Mrs. Gibbs, the landlady.

'Is Mr. Fenwick at home?'

'No; he's just this minute gone out. Did you want to see him, Miss?'

The young woman hung back a moment in hesitati