him about
it.'

Phoebe passed on. Mrs. Gibbs called after her:

'So I'm to say "Mrs. Fenwick," am I, madam--when Mr. Fenwick gets
back?'

She stood leaning against the banisters, one hand behind her, looking
her visitor up and down with impertinent eyes.

'Certainly,' said Phoebe. Then she put her hand to her head, and said,
in a low, bewildered voice, 'At least, if I'm here--if he comes back
soon--but I can't stay.'

Mrs. Gibbs went downstairs again, consumed with conjecture and
excitement.

'Wife indeed!--that's what they all say--bound to. But of all the
cool young women! I hope I haven't done no harm, letting her into the
studio. But that letter and all--it was enough to make a jelly of you
things a-turnin' out like this. And me all a-tremblin', and givin'
in!'

* * * * *

Phoebe opened the studio door, noticed the bright light with
amazement, and shut the door behind her. She stood there, with her
back to it, sharply arrested, her eyes held by the spectacle before
her.

Close to her, in the centre of the freest portion of the floor, rose
the sketch of Eugenie de Pastourelles, lit by the two lamps, which
threw a concentrated glow upon the picture, and left all the rest of
the room shadowy. Nothing could have been more strange than the aspect
of the drawing, thus solitary, and brightly illuminated. Phoebe looked
at it in bewilderment, then round the littered studio. Beyond
the lamps, she saw the large new canvas, showing dimly the first
'laying-in' of its important subject. On the floor, and running round
the walls, was a thin line of sketches and canvases. The shallow,
semi-circular window at the further end of the room was not yet
curtained, and the branches of the still leafless plane-tree outside
showed darkly in the gathering dusk. The room, apart from its one spot
of light, struck bare and chill. Except for the 'throne' and a few
chairs, it contained scarcely any furniture. But, for Phoebe, it was
held by two presences. Everything around her spoke of John. Here
was his familiar belongings--his clothes that she had mended--his
books--his painting-things. And over John's room--her husband's
room--the woman in the picture held sway.

She slowly approached the drawing, while a sob mounted in her throat.
She was still in the grip of that violent half-hysterical impulse
which had possessed her since the evening of Bella Morrison's visit.
Nights almost sleepless, arrange