She was trying to write down, as nearly as she could remember, the
words of the letter which Bella had shown her.

'Didn't you tell me about a man called John Fenwick, who painted your
portrait?--a beastly thing you couldn't abide? Well, they say he's
going to be awfully famous soon, and make a pile of money. I don't
know him, but I have a friend who knows one of the two men who used
to lodge in the same house with him--I believe they've just moved to
Chelsea. He says that Mr. Fenwick will have two ripping pictures in
the Academy, and is sure to get his name up. And, besides that,
there is some lord or other who's wild about him--and means to
buy everything he can paint. But I thought you said your man was
married?--do you remember I chaffed you about him when he began, and
you said, "No fear--he is married to a school-teacher," or something
of that sort? Well, I asked about the wife, and my friend says,
"Nonsense! he isn't married--nothing of the sort--or, at any rate,
if he is, he makes everybody believe he isn't--and there must be
something wrong somewhere." By the way, one of the pictures he's
sending in is a wonderful portrait. An awfully beautiful woman--with a
white _velvet_ dress, my dear--and they say the painting of the dress
is marvellous. She's the daughter of the Lord Somebody who's taken
him up. They've introduced him to all sorts of smart people, and, as
I said before, he's going to have a _tremendous_ success. Some people
have luck, haven't they?'

She reproduced it as accurately as she could, read it through again,
and then pushed it aside. With set lips she resumed her work, and by
midnight she had put in the last stitch and fastened the last thread.
That she should do so was essential to the plan she had in her mind.
For she had already determined what to do. Within forty-eight hours
she would be in London. If he had really disowned and betrayed her--or
if he had merely grown tired of her and wished to be quit of her--in
either case she would soon discover what it behoved her to know.

When at last, in the utter silence of midnight, she took up her candle
to go to bed, its light fell, as she moved towards the door, on the
portrait of himself that Fenwick had left with her at Christmas. She
looked at it long, dry-eyed. It was as though it began already to be
the face of a stranger.

CHAPTER VII

Eugenie, are you there?'

'Yes, papa.'

Lord Findon, peering short-sightedly into the big