He had done it, as it were, without knowing--had painted something infinitely pathetic and noble without realising it in the doing.
As he looked, his irritation died away, and something wholly contradictory took its place.

He felt a rush of self-pity, and then of trust.

What if he called on her to help him--unveiled himself to this kind and charming woman--confessed to her his remorse about Phoebe--his secret miseries and anxieties--the bitterness of his envies and ambitions?
Would she not rain balm upon him--quiet him--guide him?
He yearned towards her, as he sat there in the semi-darkness--seeking the _ewig-weibliche_ in the sweetness of her face--without a touch of passion--as a Catholic might yearn towards his Madonna.

Her slight and haughty farewell showed that he had tried her patience--had behaved like an ungenerous cur.

But he must and would propitiate her--win her friendship for himself and Phoebe.