Fenwick's face fell. Had she come so soon to this point?—by the sureness of her own instinct?
'There were many troubles between us,' he said, hoarsely, walking on beside her, his eyes on the grass.
'Was she—was she jealous?'—she breathed with difficulty—'of any of your models?—I know that sometimes happens—or of your sitters—of me, for instance?'
The last words were scarcely audible; but her gaze enforced them.
'She was jealous of my whole life—away from her. And I was utterly blind and selfish—I ought to have known what was going on—and I had no idea.'
'And what happened? I know so little.'
Her voice so peremptorily strange—so remote—compelled him. With difficulty he gave an outline of Phoebe's tragic visit to his studio. His letter of the night before had scarcely touched on the details of the actual crisis, had dwelt rather on the months of carelessness and neglect on his own part, which had prepared it.
She interrupted.
'That was she?—the mother in the "Genius Loci"?'
He assented mutely.