ur father. Don't you believe any croaking of
that sort, Phoebe.'

She shook her head.

'He looks so changed,' she said; and began drawing with her finger on
the tablecloth. He saw that her lips were trembling. A strong impulse
worked in him, bidding him go to her again, kiss away her tears, and
say--'Hang everything! Come with me to London, and let's sink or swim
together.'

Instead of which some perverse cross-current hurried him into the
words:

'He'd be all right if you'd go and nurse him, Phoebe.'

'No, not at all. They didn't want me--and Mrs. Gibson, poor creature,
was real glad when I said I was going. She was jealous of me all the
time.'

'I expect you imagined that.'

Phoebe's face flushed angrily.

'I didn't!' she said, shortly. 'Everybody in the house knew it.'

The meal went on rather silently. Fenwick's conscience said
to him, 'Take her back with you!--whatever happens, take her to
London--she's moping her life out here.' And an inner voice clamoured
in reply--'Take her to those rooms?--in the very middle of the
struggle with those two pictures?--go through all the agitation
and discomfort of explanations with Lord Findon and Madame de
Pastourelles?--run the risk of estranging them, and of distracting
your own mind from your work at this critical moment?--the further
risk, moreover, of Phoebe's jealousy?'

For in her present nervous and fidgety state she would very likely be
jealous of his sitter, and of the way in which Madame de Pastourelles'
portrait possessed his mind. No, it really couldn't be done!--it
really _couldn't!_ He must finish the two pictures--persuade Lord
Findon to buy the 'Genius Loci,' and make the portrait such a success
that he must needs buy that too. Then let discovery come on; it should
find him steeled.

Meanwhile, Phoebe must have a servant, and not any mere slip of a
girl, but some one who would be a companion and comfort. He began
to talk of it, eagerly, only to find that Phoebe took but a languid
interest in the idea.

She could think of no one--wanted no one, but Daisy. Again his secret
ill-humour waxed and justified itself. It was unreasonable and selfish
that she should not be able to think for herself and the child better;
after all, he was slaving for her as much as for himself.

Meanwhile, Carrie sat very silent beside her father, observing him,
and every now and then applying her pink lips to some morsel he held
out to her on his fork. He had kissed he