ombined to make Fenwick's
guilty bewilderment more complete, to turn all life to dream, and all
its figures into the puppets of a shadow-play.

A light step on the grass. A shock passed through him. He made a
movement, then checked it.

Eugenie paused at some distance from him. In this autumnal moment of
the year, and on week-days, scarcely any passing visitor disturbs the
quiet of the Bosquet d'Apollon. In its deep dell of trees and grass,
they were absolutely alone; the sunlight which dappled the white
bodies of the Muses, and shone on the upstretched arm of Apollo,
seemed the only thing of life besides themselves.

She threw back her veil as she came near him--her long widow's veil,
which to-day she had resumed. Beneath it, framed in it, the face
appeared of an ivory rigidity and pallor. The eyes only were wild and
living as she came up to him, clasping her hands, evidently shrinking
from him--yet composed.

'There is one thing more I want to know. If I have ever been your
friend!--if you have ever felt any kindness for me, tell me--tell me
frankly--why did your wife leave you?'

Fenwick's face fell. Had she come so soon to this point?--by the
sureness of her own instinct?

'There were many troubles between us,' he said, hoarsely, walking on
beside her, his eyes on the grass.

'Was she--was she jealous?'--she breathed with difficulty--'of any of
your models?--I know that sometimes happens--or of your sitters--of
_me_, for instance?'

The last words were scarcely audible; but her gaze enforced them.

'She was jealous of my whole life--away from her. And I was utterly
blind and selfish--I ought to have known what was going on--and I had
no idea.'

'And what happened? I know so little.'

Her voice so peremptorily strange--so remote--compelled him. With
difficulty he gave an outline of Phoebe's tragic visit to his studio.
His letter of the night before had scarcely touched on the details of
the actual crisis, had dwelt rather on the months of carelessness and
neglect on his own part, which had prepared it.

She interrupted.

'That was she?--the mother in the "Genius Loci"?'

He assented mutely.

She closed her eyes a moment, seeing, in her suffering, the face of
the young mother and her child.

'But go on. And you were away? Please, please go on! When was it? It
must have been that spring when--'

She put her hand to her head, trying to remember dates.

'It was just before the Academy,' he said,