ss! It won't do her any
harm.'

But the mother persisted. Then the child cried, and the father and
mother wrangled over it, till Fenwick caught up the babe by Phoebe's
peremptory directions and carried it away upstairs. At the door of
the little parlour, while Phoebe was at his shoulder, wiping away the
child's tears and cooing to it, Fenwick suddenly turned his head and
kissed his wife's cheek, or rather her pretty ear, which presented
itself. Miss Anna, still at table, laughed discreetly behind their
backs--the laugh of the sweet-natured old maid.

When the child was asleep upstairs, Phoebe and the little servant
cleared away while Fenwick and Miss Anna read the newspaper, and
talked on generalities. In this talk Phoebe had no share, and it might
have been noticed by one who knew them well, that in his conversation
with Miss Mason, Fenwick became another man. He used tones and phrases
that he either had never used, or used no longer, with Phoebe. He
showed himself, in fact, intellectually at ease, expansive, and, at
times, amazingly arrogant. For instance, in discussing a paragraph
about the Academy in the London letter of the _Westmoreland Gazette_,
he fired up and paced the room, haranguing his listener in a loud,
eager voice. Of course she knew--every one knew--that all the best
men and all the coming forces were now _outside the Academy_.
Millais, Leighton, Watts--spent talents, extinct volcanoes!--Tadema a
marvellous mechanic, without ideas!--the landscape men, chaotic,--no
standard anywhere, no style. On the other hand, Burne-Jones and the
Grosvenor Gallery group--ideas without drawing, without knowledge,
feet and hands absurd, muscles anyhow. While as for Whistler and
the Impressionists--a lot of maniacs, running a fad to death--but
_clever_--by Jove!--

No!--there was a new art coming!--the creation of men who had learnt
to draw, and could yet keep a hold on ideas--

'_Character_!--that's what we want!' He struck the table; and finally
with a leap he was at the goal which Miss Anna--sitting before
him, arms folded, her strong old face touched with satire--had long
foreseen. 'By George, _I'd_ show them!--if I only had the chance.'

He threw the pictures back into the cupboard.

'No doubt,' said Miss Anna, dryly. 'I think you _are_ a great man,
John, though you say it. But you've got to prove it.'

He laughed uncomfortably.

'I've written a good many of these things to the _Gazette_,' he said,
evading