In his exaltation he began an imaginary article denouncing the Impressionists, spouting it aloud as he went along; so that the passers-by caught a word or two, through the traffic, now and then, and turned to look, astonished, at the handsome, gesticulating fellow in the hansom.  Till he stopped abruptly, first to laugh at himself, and then to chuckle over the thought of Phoebe, and the presents he had just bought.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, at the very moment, probably, that Fenwick was in Peter Robinson’s shop, an omnibus coming from Euston passed through Russell Square, and a woman, volubly advised by the conductor, alighted from it at the corner of Bernard Street.  She was very tall and slender; her dress was dusty and travel-stained, and as she left the omnibus she drew down a thickly spotted veil over a weary face.  She walked quickly down Bernard Street, looking at the numbers, and stopped before the door of Fenwick’s lodgings.

The door was opened by Mrs. Gibbs, the landlady.

‘Is Mr. Fenwick at home?’

‘No; he’s just this minute gone out.  Did you want to see him, Miss?’

The young woman hung back a moment in hesitation.  Then she advanced into the hall.

’I’ve got a parcel for him’—­she showed it under her arm.  ’If you’ll allow me, I’ll go up, and leave it in his room.  It’s important.’

‘And what name, Miss—­if I may ask?’

The visitor hesitated again—­then she said, quietly: 

‘I am Mrs. Fenwick—­Mr. Fenwick’s wife.’

‘His wife!’ cried the other, startled.  ’Oh no; there is some mistake—­he hasn’t got no wife!’

Phoebe drew herself up fiercely.

’You mustn’t say such things to me, please!  I am Mr. Fenwick’s wife—­and you must please show me his rooms.’

The emphasis and the passion with which these words were said left Mrs. Gibbs gaping.  She was a worthy woman, for whom the world—­so far as it could be studied from a Bernard Street lodging-house—­had few surprises; and a number of alternative conjectures ran through her mind as she studied Phoebe’s appearance.

‘I’m sure, ma’am, I meant no offence,’ she said, hurriedly; ’but, you see, Mr. Fenwick has never—­as you might say—­’

‘No,’ said Phoebe, proudly, interrupting her; ’there was no reason why he should speak of his private affairs.  I have been in the country, waiting till he could make a home for me.  Now will you show me his room?’

But Mrs. Gibbs did not move.  She stood staring at Phoebe, irresolute—­thinking, no doubt, of the penny novelettes on which she fed her leisure moments—­till Phoebe impatiently drew a letter from her pocket.

’I see you doubt what I say.  Of course it is quite right that you should be careful about admitting anybody to my husband’s rooms in his absence.  But here is the last letter I received from him a week or two ago.’