This fresh check unhinged him altogether—­seemed to make a mere fool of him—­the sport of gods and men.  There he paced up and down in a mad excitement.  What in the Devil’s name was the meaning of it?  The picture came from Phoebe—­no one else.  But it seemed she had only sent it to him to torment him to punish him yet more?  Women were the cruellest of God’s creatures.  And as for himself—­idiot!—­if he had only finished his business an hour ago, both she and he would have been released by this time.  He worked himself up into a wild passion of rage, stopping every now and then to look at that ghost of his youth, which lay on the table, propped up against some books—­and once at the reflexion of his haggard face and grey hair as he passed in front of an old mirror on the wall.

Then suddenly the tension gave way.  He sank on the chair beside the table, hiding his face on his arms in an utter exhaustion, while yet, through the physical weakness, something swept and vibrated, which was in truth the onset of returning life.

As he lay there a cab drove up to the front door, and a lady dressed in black descended from it.  She rang, and Mrs. Flint appeared.

‘Is Mr. Fenwick at home?’

‘He is, ma’am,’ said the woman, hesitating—­’but he did say he wasn’t to be disturbed.’

’Will you please give him my card and say I wish to see him at once?  I have brought him an important letter.’

Mrs. Flint, wavering between her dread of Fenwick’s ill-humour and the impression produced upon her by the gentle decision of her visitor, retreated into the house.  The lady followed.

’Well, if you’ll wait there, ma’am’—­the charwoman opened the door of the dismantled sitting-room—­’I’ll speak to Mr. Fenwick.’

She shuffled off.  Eugenie de Pastourelles threw back her veil.  She had arrived only that morning in London after a night journey, and her face showed deep lines of fatigue.  But its beauty of expression had never been more striking.  Animation—­joy—­spoke in the eyes, quivered in the lips.  She moved restlessly up and down, holding in one hand a parcel of letters.  Once she noticed the room—­the furniture ticketed in lots—­and paused in concern and pity.  But the momentary cloud was soon chased by the happiness of the thought which held her.  Meanwhile Mrs. Flint knocked at the door of the studio.

’Mr. Fenwick!  Sir!  There’s a lady come, sir, and she wishes to speak to you particular.’

An angry movement inside.

‘I’m busy.  Send her away.’

‘I’ve got her card here, sir,’ said Mrs. Flint, dropping her voice.  ’It’s a queer name, sir—­somethin furrin—­Madam somethin.  She says it’s most pertickler.  I was to tell you she’d only got home to-day, from abroad.’

A sudden noise inside.  The door was opened.

‘Where is she?  Ask her to come in.’

He himself retreated into the darkness of the studio, clinging, so the charwoman noticed, to the back of a chair, as though for support.  Wondering ‘what was up,’ she clattered back again down the long passage which led from the sitting-room to the studio.