Phoebe was dressed (for the heat) in a white gown with wide, open sleeves. Her low collar showed the pure, soft swell of her neck to the shoulder-line. She was sitting upright and demure in a straight-backed chair, with her hands folded quietly in her lap. "That isn't a very comfortable chair you've got," he said. He knew that she was tired with pushing the bath-chair about all day. "It's the one I always sit in," said Phoebe. "Well, you're not going to sit in it now," he said. He drew the armchair out of its sacred corner and made her sit in that. He put a cushion at her head and a footstool at her feet. "You make my heart ache," he said. "Do I?" He could not tell whether the little shaking breath she drew were a laugh or a sigh. She lay back, letting her tired body slacken into rest. The movement loosened the little combs that kept the coil of her brown hair in place. Phoebe abhorred dishevelment. She put up her hands to her head. Her wide sleeve fell back, showing the full length of her white arms. He saw another woman stretching her arms to the man who leaned above her. He saw the movement of her hands--hands of the same texture and whiteness as her body, instinct with its impulses. A long procession of abominations passed through the white arch of her arms--the arch she raised in triumph and defiance, immortalizing her sin. He was very tender with Phoebe that night, for his heart was wrung with compunction. "She's adorable," he said to himself; "but I can't live with _that_." Gibson left by the early train next day. He went without saying good-bye and without leaving an explanation or an address. Phoebe held her head high, and said, day after day, "There's sure to be a letter." Three weeks passed and no letter came. Phoebe saw that it was all over. One day she was found (Effie found her) on her bed, crying. She was so weak she let Effie take her in her arms. "If I only knew what I had done," she said. "Oh, Effie! what could have made him go away?" "I can't tell, my lamb. You mustn't think about him any more." "I can't help thinking. You see, it's not as if he hadn't been so nice." "He couldn't have been nice to treat you that way." "He didn't," said Phoebe fiercely. "He didn't treat me any way. I sometimes think I must have made it all up out of my own head. Did I?" "No, no. I'm sure you didn't." "It would have been awful of me. But I'd rather be awful than have to think that he was. What is my worst fault, Effie?" "Your worst fault, in his eyes, is that you have none." Phoebe sat up on the edge of the bed. She was thinking hard. And as she thought her hand went up, caressing unconsciously the little brown curl. "If I only knew," said she, "what I had done!" Gibson never saw Phoebe Richardson again. But a year later, as he turned suddenly on to the esplanade of a strange watering-place, he encountered the bath-chair, drawn by Effie and another lady. He made way, lifting his cap mechanically to its occupant.