Phoebe looked at the dignity and pureness of the face before her, and shrank a little.

‘And how was it found out?’ she breathed, turning away.

‘There was a Miss Morrison—­’

‘Bella Morrison!’ cried Phoebe, suddenly, clasping her hands—­’Bella!  Of course, she did it to disgrace him.’

’We never knew what her motive was.  But she told—­an old friend—­who told us.’

‘And then—­what did John say?’

The wife’s hands shook—­her eyes were greedy for an answer.

‘Oh! it was all miserable!’ said Eugenie, with a gesture of emotion.  ’It made my father very angry, and we could not be friends any more—­as we had been.  And Mr. Fenwick had a wretched winter.  He was ill—­and his painting seemed to go wrong—­and he was terribly in need of money—­and then came that day at the theatre—­’

‘I know,’ whispered Phoebe, hanging on the speaker’s lips—­’when he saw Carrie?’

‘It nearly killed him,’ said Eugenie, gently.  ’It was like a light kindled, and then blown out.’

Phoebe leant her head against the table before her, and began to sob—­

’If I’d never let her go up that day!  When we first landed I didn’t know what to do—­I couldn’t make up my mind.  We’d taken lodgings down at Guildford—­near some acquaintances we’d made in Canada.  And the girl was a great friend of Carrie’s—­we used to stay with them sometimes in Montreal.  She had acted a little at Halifax and Montreal—­and she wanted an opening in London—­and somebody told her to apply at that theatre—­I forget its name.’

‘Halifax!’ cried Eugenie—­’Halifax, Nova Scotia?  Oh, now I understand!  We have searched England through.  The stage-manager said one of the young ladies mentioned Halifax.  Nobody ever thought—­’

She paused.  Phoebe said nothing; she was grappling with some of the new ideas presented to her.

‘And this was his second search, you know,’ said Eugenie, laying a hand timidly on Phoebe’s shoulder.  ’He had done all he could—­when you left him.  But when he lost sight of Carrie again—­and so of you both—­it wore his heart out.  I can see it did.  He is a broken man.’  Her voice trembled.  ’Oh, you will have to nurse—­to comfort him.  He has been in despair about his art—­in despair about everything.  He—­’

But she checked herself.  The rest was for him to tell.

‘For a long time he seemed so—­so—­successful,’ said Phoebe, plucking at the tablecloth, trying to compose voice and features.

’Yes—­but it didn’t last.  He seemed to get angry with himself—­and everybody else.  He quarrelled with the Academy—­and his work didn’t improve—­it went back.  But then—­when one’s unhappy—­’

Her smile and the pressure of her hand said the rest.

‘He’ll never forgive me!’ said Phoebe, her voice thick and shaking.  ‘It can never be the same again.  I was a fool to come home.’

Eugenie withdrew her hand.  Unconsciously, a touch of sternness showed itself in her bearing, her pale features.