“A thing happened to me and your mother that was not at bottom so unlike the thing that has happened to you and me here to-night,” he said sharply. He had grown a little excited again and thought he had better get up and walk. Dropping his daughter’s hand he sprang to his feet and for a few minutes walked nervously about. The whole thing, the startled fear of him that kept going and coming in his daughter’s eyes and the inert silent presence of his wife, was making what he wanted to do more difficult than he had imagined it would be. He looked at his wife’s body lying silent and motionless on the bed. How many times he had seen the same body, lying just in that way. She had submitted to him long ago and had been submitting to the life in himself ever since. The figure his mind had made, ‘an ocean of silence,’ fitted her well. She had always been silent. At the best all she had learned from life was a half-resentful habit of submission. Even when she talked to him she did not really talk. It was odd indeed that Natalie out of her silence could say so many things to him while he and this woman in all their years together had said nothing really touching each other’s lives. He looked from the motionless body of the older woman to his daughter and smiled. “I can enter into her,” he thought exultant. “She cannot shut me out of herself, does not want to shut me out of herself.” There was something in his daughter’s face that told him what was going on in her mind. The younger woman now sat looking at the figure of the Virgin and it was evident that the dumb fright that had taken such complete possession of her when she was ushered abruptly into the room and the presence of the naked man was beginning a little to loosen its grip. In spite of herself she was thinking. There was the man, her own father, moving nude like a tree in winter about the room and occasionally stopping to look at her, the dim light, the Virgin with the candles burning beneath and the figure of her mother lying on the bed. Her father was trying to tell her some story she wanted to hear. In some way it concerned herself, some vital part of herself. There was no doubt it was wrong, terribly wrong for the story to be told and for her to listen, but she wanted to hear it now. “After all I was right,” John Webster was thinking. “Such a thing as has happened here might make or utterly ruin a woman of Jane’s age, but as it is everything will come out right. She has a streak of cruelty in her too. There is a kind of health in her eyes now. She wants to know. After this experience she will perhaps no longer be afraid of the dead. It is the dead who are forever frightening the living.” He took up the thread of his tale as he walked up and down in the dim light.