“Has anything happened lately, since you came to Brighton?”
Lizzie nodded.
“Don't cry like that; tell me about it.”
“What's the use? Nothing matters now.”
“Has he been here?”
Lizzie nodded, and Frank folded the shawl about her, and wiped her tears away with his pocket handkerchief. “Since you were ill?”
“No, before I was ill; he was down here watching me. He found out I had gone to your studio, and he said the most dreadful things—that he would break your head, and that I had never been true to him, and that I was not fit to be the wife of an honest man.”
“But I will tell him that you came to my studio to sit for your portrait.”
“No, you mustn't write; it would only make matters worse. No use; he says he will never see me again.”
“Where can I see him? Has he gone back to London? I will follow him and tell him he is mistaken.”