The Welbys certainly had but little to do with the party at the Réservoirs. Welby seemed to be absorbed in his new picture, and Mrs. Welby let it be plainly understood that at home Arthur was too busy, and she too ill, to receive visitors; while out-of-doors they neither of them wished to be thrown across Mr. Fenwick.
Every evening, after taking his wife home, Welby went out by himself for a solitary walk. He avoided the Park and the woods; chose rather the St. Cyr road, or the Avenue de Paris. He walked, wrapt, a little too picturesquely perhaps, in an old Campagna cloak, relic of his years in Rome—with a fine collie for his companion. Once or twice in the distance he caught sight of Eugénie and Fenwick—only to turn down a side street, out of their way.
His thoughts meanwhile, day by day, his silent, thronging thoughts, dealt with his own life—and theirs. Would she venture it? He discussed it calmly with himself. It presented itself to him as an act altogether unworthy of her. What hurt him most, however, at these times, was the occasional sudden memory of Eugénie's face, trembling with pain, under some slight or unkindness shown her by his wife.
One day Welby was sitting beside his wife on the sheltered side of the Terrace, when Eugénie and Fenwick came in sight, emerging from the Hundred Steps. Suddenly Welby bent over his wife.
'Elsie!—have you noticed anything?'
'Noticed what?'
He motioned towards the distant figures. His gesture was a little dry and hostile.
Elsie in amazement raised herself painfully on her elbow to look.
'Eugénie!' she said, breathlessly—'Eugénie—and Mr. Fenwick!'
Arthur Welby watched the transformation in her face. It was the first time he had seen her look happy for months.