And not a loving word!--scarcely an inquiry after the child.
April came.

The little shop in the neighbouring village gave Mrs.
Fenwick credit--but Phoebe, brought up in frugal ways, to loathe the least stain of debt, hated to claim it, and went there in the dusk, that she might not be seen.
Meanwhile not a line from John to tell her that his pictures had gone in to the Academy.

She saw a paragraph, however, in the local papers describing 'Show Sunday.' Had John been entertaining smart people to tea, and showing his pictures, with the rest?
If so, couldn't he find ten minutes in which to send her news of it?
It _was_ unkind! All her suspicions and despair revived.
As she carried her child back from the village, tottering often under the weight, gusts of mingled weakness and passion would sweep over her.

She would not be treated so--John should see! She would get her money for her work and go to London--whether he liked it or no--tax him with his indifference to her--find out what he was really doing.
The capacity for these moments of violence was something new in her--probably depending, if the truth were known, on some obscure physical misery.

She felt that they degraded her, yet could not curb them.
And, in this state, the obsession of the winter seized her again.