Why was it that Welby's presence always had this effect upon him:--setting him on edge, and making a bear of him?
No!--it was not allowed to be so handsome, so able, so ingratiating.

Yet he knew very well that Welby made no enemies, and that in his grudging jealousy of a delightful artist he, Fenwick, stood alone.
He walked to the window.

Yes, there they were, all three--Mademoiselle Barras seemed to have gone her ways separately--just disappearing into Russell Square.

He saw that Welby had possessed himself of the fair lady's portfolio, and was carrying her shawl.

He watched their intimate, laughing ways--how different from the stiffness she had just shown _him_--from the friendly, yet distant relations she always maintained between herself and her painter! A fierce and irritable ambition swept through him--rebellion against the hampering conditions of birth and poverty, which he felt as so many chains upon body and soul.