If my husband had been behaving like this, I should want to know the truth--and pay him out.' Phoebe took the letter, opened it with steady fingers, and read it.
While she was reading it the baby Carrie, escaped from the little servant's tutelage, ran in and hid her face in her mother's skirts, peering sometimes at the stranger.
When she had finished the letter, Phoebe handed it back to its owner.
'Who wrote that ?' 'A friend of mine who's working at South Kensington.

You can see--she knows a lot about artists.' 'And what she doesn't know she makes up,' said Phoebe, with slow contempt.

'You tell her, Miss Morrison, from me, she might be better employed than writing nasty, lying gossip about people she never saw.' She caught up her child, who flung her arms round her mother's neck, nestling on her shoulder.
'Oh, well, if you're going to take it like that--' said the other, with a laugh.
'I _am_ taking it like that, you see,' said Phoebe, walking to the door and throwing it wide.

'You'd better go, Miss Morrison.

I am sure I can't imagine why you came.