'I wish you hadn't, John!' said Phoebe, anxiously. She was sitting under the lamp with her needlework.
He turned upon her aggressively.
'And why, please?'
'Because the last article you wrote lost you a commission. Don't you remember—that gentleman at Grasmere—what he said?'
She nodded her fair head gravely. It struck Miss Anna that she was looking pale and depressed.
'Old fool!' said Fenwick. 'Yes, I remember. He wouldn't ask anybody to paint his children who'd written such a violent article. As if I wanted to paint his children! Besides, it was a mere excuse—to save the money.'
'I don't think so,' murmured Phoebe. 'And oh, I had counted on that five pounds!'
'What does five pounds matter, compared to speaking to one's mind?' said Fenwick, roughly.
There was a silence. Fenwick, looking at the two women, felt them unsympathetic, and abruptly changed the subject.
'I wish you'd give us some music, Phoebe.'