Good-bye!' Phoebe said nothing.

The girl passed her insolently, and left the house.
Phoebe put the child to bed, sat without touching a morsel while Daisy supped, and then shut herself into the parlour, saying that she was going to sit up over her work, to which only a few last touches were wanting.

It had been her intention to go with the carrier to Windermere the following day in order to hand it over to the shop that had got her the commission, and ask for payment.
But as soon as she was alone in the room, with her lamp and her work, she swept its silken, many-coloured mass aside, found a sheet of paper, and began to write.
She was trying to write down, as nearly as she could remember, the words of the letter which Bella had shown her.
'Didn't you tell me about a man called John Fenwick, who painted your portrait ?--a beastly thing you couldn't abide?
Well, they say he's going to be awfully famous soon, and make a pile of money.

I don't know him, but I have a friend who knows one of the two men who used to lodge in the same house with him--I believe they've just moved to Chelsea.

He says that Mr.Fenwick will have two ripping pictures in the Academy, and is sure to get his name up.