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 her direct attack.  ‘They’ll put them in next week.’

‘I wish you hadn’t, John!’ said Phoebe, anxiously.  She was sitting under the lamp with her needlework.

He turned upon her aggressively.

‘And why, please?’

’Because the last article you wrote lost you a commission.  Don’t you remember—­that gentleman at Grasmere—­what he said?’

She nodded her fair head gravely.  It struck Miss Anna that she was looking pale and depressed.

‘Old fool!’ said Fenwick.  ’Yes, I remember.  He wouldn’t ask anybody to paint his children who’d written such a violent article.  As if I wanted to paint his children!  Besides, it was a mere excuse—­to save the money.’

‘I don’t think so,’ murmured Phoebe.  ’And oh, I had counted on that five pounds!’

‘What does five pounds matter, compared to speaking to one’s mind?’ said Fenwick, roughly.

There was a silence.  Fenwick, looking at the two women, felt them unsympathetic, and abruptly changed the subject.

‘I wish you’d give us some music, Phoebe.’

Phoebe rose obediently.  He opened the little pianette for her, and lit the candles.

She played some Irish and Scotch airs, in poor settings, and with much stumbling.  After a little, Fenwick listened restlessly, his brow frowning, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair.  They were all glad when it was over.

Phoebe, hearing a whimper from the child, went upstairs.  The two others were soon in hushed but earnest conversation.

Miss Anna had gone to bed.  Fenwick was sitting with a book before him—­lost in anxious and exciting calculations—­when Phoebe entered the room.

‘Is that you?’ he said, jumping up.  ’That’s all right.  I wanted to talk to you.’

‘I thought you did,’ she said, with a very quiet, drooping air; then going to the window, which was open, she leaned out into the May night.  ‘Where shall we go?  It’s warmer.’

‘Let’s go to the ghyll,’ said Fenwick; ‘I’ll fetch you a shawl.’

For, as both remembered, Miss Anna was upstairs, and in that tiny cottage all sounds were audible.

Fenwick wrapt a shawl round his companion, and they sallied forth.