And, drawing it from its envelope, Phoebe showed first the signature, ‘John Fenwick,’ and then pointed to the address on the envelope—­’Mrs. John Fenwick, Green Nab Cottage, Great Langdale.’

‘Well, I never!’ said Mrs. Gibbs, staring still more widely, and slowly retreating—­’and he never lettin’ me post a letter since he came here—­not once—­no confidence nowhere—­and I’m sure I have been his good friend!’

Phoebe moved towards the staircase.

‘Is Mr. Fenwick’s room on the first floor or the second?’

Lost in protesting wonder, Mrs. Gibbs wheezily mounted the stairs far enough to point to the door of Fenwick’s room.

’Here’s matches’—­she fumbled in her apron-pocket.  ’There’s a candle on the mantelpiece.  Though I dare say he’s left his lamp going.  He generally does—­he don’t take no account of what I says to him about it.’

Phoebe passed on.  Mrs. Gibbs called after her: 

’So I’m to say “Mrs. Fenwick,” am I, madam—­when Mr. Fenwick gets back?’

She stood leaning against the banisters, one hand behind her, looking her visitor up and down with impertinent eyes.

‘Certainly,’ said Phoebe.  Then she put her hand to her head, and said, in a low, bewildered voice, ’At least, if I’m here—­if he comes back soon—­but I can’t stay.’

Mrs. Gibbs went downstairs again, consumed with conjecture and excitement.

’Wife indeed!—­that’s what they all say—­bound to.  But of all the cool young women!  I hope I haven’t done no harm, letting her into the studio.  But that letter and all—­it was enough to make a jelly of you things a-turnin’ out like this.  And me all a-tremblin’, and givin’ in!’

* * * * *

Phoebe opened the studio door, noticed the bright light with amazement, and shut the door behind her.  She stood there, with her back to it, sharply arrested, her eyes held by the spectacle before her.

Close to her, in the centre of the freest portion of the floor, rose the sketch of Eugenie de Pastourelles, lit by the two lamps, which threw a concentrated glow upon the picture, and left all the rest of the room shadowy.  Nothing could have been more strange than the aspect of the drawing, thus solitary, and brightly illuminated.  Phoebe looked at it in bewilderment, then round the littered studio.  Beyond the lamps, she saw the large new canvas, showing dimly the first ‘laying-in’ of its important subject.  On the floor, and running round the walls, was a thin line of sketches and canvases.  The shallow, semi-circular window at the further end of the room was not yet curtained, and the branches of the still leafless plane-tree outside showed darkly in the gathering dusk.  The room, apart from its one spot of light, struck bare and chill.  Except for the ‘throne’ and a few chairs, it contained scarcely any furniture.  But, for Phoebe, it was held by two presences.  Everything around her spoke of John.  Here was his familiar belongings—­his clothes that she had mended—­his books—­his painting-things.  And over John’s room—­her husband’s room—­the woman in the picture held sway.