Phœbe had not been very kind when she heard that her sister had been so bold-faced, as she called it, to ask Jack Collingwood for a sketch. “You don’t know what interpretation might be put on such a thing,” she said, and indeed it was difficult to conjecture. But Clara attributed this severity as much to the tooth-ache as anything else, and in point of fact when the picture arrived, Phœbe, who would usually spend a quarter of an hour over untying a knot rather than cut it, fetched the scissors in less than no time, and behaved as if string was not a precious metal.
“It is kind of him,” said Clara. “See what a size, Phœbe! though perhaps that may be mostly frame. I know artists are very fond of putting large frames on small pictures. Oh, dear, there is another wrapper!”
The picture was undone at last, and the two peered closely into it, in the approved fashion. Suddenly Clara started.
“It’s the corner down by the mill,” she said, “where the foot-bridge crosses the river. And the dog, it’s like the—Phœbe, it’s Miss Avesham and her dog on the bridge by the mill.”
Phœbe looked in silence a moment.
“What is to be done?” she said, at length. “Dear me, yes, it’s a wonderful likeness, too. She is just like that when she laughs.”
“What is the picture called?” said Clara, opening the note which had accompanied it. “In Danger. Oh! I see. The dog is shaking itself, and her dress is in danger of getting wet. How very clever!”
Phœbe had ceased looking at the picture: an affair far more momentous and interesting occupied her.
“I wonder what it all means?” she began.
“You see the dog is shaking itself,” repeated Clara, “and the danger is——”