id it matter whether he were married or no?

The poor girl stood there, seething with passion, pluming herself on
a knowledge of the world which enabled her to 'see through' these
abominable great ladies.

But if she didn't know, if Bella Morrison's tale were true, then it
was John, on whom Phoebe's rage returned to fling itself with fresh
and maddened bitterness. That he should have thus utterly ignored
her in his new surroundings--have never said a word about her to the
landlady with whom he had lodged for nearly a year, or to any of his
new acquaintances and friends--should have deliberately hidden the
very fact of his marriage--could a husband give a wife any more
humiliating proof of his indifference, or of her insignificance in his
life?

[Illustration: _Phoebe's Rival_]

Meanwhile the picture possessed her more and more. Closer and closer
she came, her chest heaving. Was it not as though John had foreseen
her coming, her complaints--and had prepared for her this silent, this
cruel answer? The big picture of course was gone in to the Academy,
but his wife, if she came, was to see that he could not do without
Madame de Pastourelles. So the sketch, with which he had finished,
really, months ago, was dragged out, and made queen of all it
surveyed, because, no doubt, he was miserable at parting with the
picture. Ingenuity and self-torment grew with what they fed on.
The burning lamps--the solitude--the graceful woman, with her slim,
fine-lady hands--with every moment they became in Phoebe's eyes a more
bitter, a more significant offence. Presently, in her foolish agony,
she did actually believe that he had thought she might descend upon
him, provoked beyond bearing by his silence and neglect, and had
carefully planned this infamous way of telling her--what he wanted her
to know!

Waves of unreasoning passion swept across her. The gentleness and
docility of her youth had been perhaps mechanical, half-conscious; she
came in truth of a hard stock, capable of violence. She put her hands
to her face, trembled, and turned away. She began to be afraid of
herself.

With a restless hand, as though she caught hold of anything that might
distract her from the picture, she began to rummage among the papers
on the table. Suddenly her attention pounced upon them; she bent her
head, took up some and carried them to the lamp. Five or six large
envelopes, bearing a crest and monogram, addressed in a clear hand,
and containing