Lord Findon, with the eagerness of a Londoner discovering some new thing, fell into quick talk with Fenwick; looked him meanwhile up and down, his features, bearing, clothes; noticed his North-Country accent, and all the other signs of the plebeian.  And presently Fenwick, placed at his ease, began for the first time to expand, became argumentative and explosive.  In a few minutes he was laying down the law in his Westmoreland manner—­attacking the Academy—­denouncing certain pictures of the year—­with a flushed, confident face and a gesticulating hand.  Watson observed him with some astonishment; Lord Findon looked amused—­and pulled out his watch.

’Oh, well, everybody kicks the Academy—­but it’s pretty strong, as you’ll find when you have to do with it.’

‘Have you been writing those articles in the Mirror?’ said Watson, abruptly.

‘I’m not a journalist.’  The young man’s tone was sulky.  He got up and his loquacity disappeared.

‘Well, I must be off,’ said Lord Findon.  ’But you’re coming to dinner with me to-morrow night, Cuningham, aren’t you?  Will you excuse a short invitation’—­he turned, after a moment’s pause, to Fenwick—­’and accompany him?  Lady Findon would, I’m sure, be glad to make your acquaintance.  St. James’s Square—­102.  All right’—­as Fenwick, colouring violently, stammered an acceptance—­’we shall expect you.  Aurevoir!  I’m afraid it’s no good to ask you!’ The last words were addressed smilingly to Watson, as Lord Findon, with outstretched hand, passed through the door, which Cuningham opened for him.

‘Thank you,’ said Watson, with a grave inclination—­’I’m a hermit.’

The door closed on a gay and handsome presence.  Lord Findon could not possibly have been accused of anything so ill-mannered as patronage.  But there was in his manner a certain consciousness of power—­of vantage-ground; a certain breath of autocracy.  The face of Watson showed it as he returned to look closely into Fenwick’s picture.

A few minutes later Fenwick found himself alone.  He stood in front of the picture, staring into Phoebe’s eyes.  A wave of passionate remorse broke upon him.  He had as good as denied her; and she sat there before him like some wronged, helpless thing.  He seemed to hear her voice, to see her lips moving.

Hastily he took her last letter out of his pocket.

’I am glad you’re getting on so well, and I’m counting the weeks to Christmas.  Carrie kisses your photograph morning and night, but I’m afraid she’ll have forgotten you a good deal.  Sometimes I’m very weary here—­but I don’t mind if you’re getting on, and if it won’t be much longer.  Miss Anna has sent me some new patterns for my tatting, and I’m getting a fine lot done.  All the visitors are quite gone now, and it’s that quiet at nights!  Sometimes when it’s been raining I think I can hear the Dungeon Ghyll stream, though it’s more than a mile away.’