‘His talk is admirable!’ said Lord Findon.

‘I dare say it is, but he isn’t my sister’s equal,’ replied the son, with stolidity.

‘A good artist is anybodyies equal,’ cried Lord Findon, much heated.

‘You don’t really think it, papa,’ said Marmaduke, firmly.  ’Shall I give Eugenie a talking to?—­as you’re not in a condition.’

Lord Findon laughed, though not gaily.

‘You’d better try!  Or rather, I don’t advise you to try!’

Marmaduke, however, did try; with the only result that Eugenie soon grew a little vexed and tremulous, and begged him to go home.  He might be a master of brewing finance, and a dear, kind, well-meaning brother, but he really did not understand his sister’s affairs.

Marmaduke went home, much puzzled, urgently commanding Theresa to write to him, and announcing to Arthur Welby, who listened silently, as he talked, that if Fenwick did propose, he should think it a damned impertinence.

Lord Findon meanwhile held his peace.  Every day Eugenie came in from her walk with Fenwick, to sit with or read to her father.  She always spoke of what she had been doing, quite naturally and simply, describing their walk and their conversation, giving the news of Fenwick’s work—­bringing his sketches to show.  Lord Findon would lie and listen—­a little suspicious and ill at ease—­sometimes a little sulky.  But he let his illness and his voicelessness excuse him from grappling with her.  She must, of course, please herself.  If she chose, as she seemed about to choose—­why, they must all make the best of it!—­Marmaduke might talk as he liked.  Naturally, Arthur kept away from them.  Poor Arthur!  But what a darling she looked in her black, with this fresh touch of colour in her pale cheeks!

The Welbys certainly had but little to do with the party at the Reservoirs.  Welby seemed to be absorbed in his new picture, and Mrs. Welby let it be plainly understood that at home Arthur was too busy, and she too ill, to receive visitors; while out-of-doors they neither of them wished to be thrown across Mr. Fenwick.

Every evening, after taking his wife home, Welby went out by himself for a solitary walk.  He avoided the Park and the woods; chose rather the St. Cyr road, or the Avenue de Paris.  He walked, wrapt, a little too picturesquely perhaps, in an old Campagna cloak, relic of his years in Rome—­with a fine collie for his companion.  Once or twice in the distance he caught sight of Eugenie and Fenwick—­only to turn down a side street, out of their way.

His thoughts meanwhile, day by day, his silent, thronging thoughts, dealt with his own life—­and theirs.  Would she venture it?  He discussed it calmly with himself.  It presented itself to him as an act altogether unworthy of her.  What hurt him most, however, at these times, was the occasional sudden memory of Eugenie’s face, trembling with pain, under some slight or unkindness shown her by his wife.