‘Eugenie, come!—­we must get back for dinner.’

Fenwick, looking up, saw her emerging from the shadows of the further room into the bright lamp-light, her grey veil floating cloudwise round her.  As she came towards him, he felt her once more the emblem and angel of his good-fortune.  All the inspiration she had been to him, all that closer acquaintance, to which during the preceding weeks she had admitted him, throbbed warm at his heart.  His mind was full of gratitude—­full also of repentance!—­towards Phoebe and towards her.  That very night would he write his confession to her, at last!—­tell all his story, beg her to excuse his foolish lack of frankness and presence of mind to Lord Findon, and ask her kindness for Phoebe and the child.  He already saw little Carrie on her knee, and the aegis of her protecting sweetness spread over them all.

Meanwhile the impression upon her was that he had taken the news of his success with admirable self-restraint, that he was growing and shaping as a human being, no less than as an artist, that his manner to her father was excellent, neither tongue-tied nor effusive, and his few words of thanks manly and sincere.  She thought to herself that here was the beginning of a great career—­the moment when the streamlet finds its bed, and enters upon its true and destined course.

And in the warm homage, the evident attachment she had awakened in the man before her, there was for Eugenie at the moment a peculiar temptation.  Had she not just given proof that she was set apart—­that for her there could be no more thought of love in its ordinary sense?  In her high-strung consciousness of Welby’s dismissal, she felt herself not only secure against the vulgar snares of vanity and sex, but, as it were, endowed with a larger spiritual freedom.  She had sent away the man of whom she was in truth afraid—­the man whom she might have loved.  But in this distant, hesitating, and yet strong devotion that Fenwick was beginning to show her, there was something that appealed—­and with peculiar force, in the immediate circumstances,—­to a very sore and lonely heart.  Here was no danger to be feared!—­nothing but a little kind help to a man of genius, whose great gifts might be so easily nullified and undone by his thorny vehemence of character, his lack of breeding and education.

The correspondence indeed which had arisen between them out of Fenwick’s first remarkable letter to her, had led unconsciously to a new attitude on the part of Madame de Pastourelles.  That he was an interesting and promising artist she knew; that on subjects connected with his art he could talk copiously and well, that also, she knew; but that he could write, with such pleasant life, detail, and ingenuity, was a surprise, and it attracted her, as it would have attracted a French-woman of the eighteenth century.  Her maimed life had made her perforce an ‘intellectual’; and in these letters, the man’s natural poetry