Thereupon a struggle for the mastery took place between spirit and flesh. He was not able to analyse his emotions, but he divined somehow that this was his labour, that something was being born out of him, wrenched from his very vitals, a new self with a brighter intelligence, a more vigorous sympathy. The pains of the spirit were upon him. Presently an idea emerged; the conception which must take place in every human soul, the quickening of a transcendent conviction that pain is inevitable and inseparable from growth. It would be absurd to contend that his writhing thoughts could twist themselves into the form to which expression has been given here. He was very young, and, apart from a special knowledge of his business, extremely ignorant; but it was revealed to him at this moment, a babe and suckling in such matters, that something had happened to him, that he could never be the same again. Fatherhood, and, all it implied, had been paid for with tears and agony. The door of Susan’s room opened. He saw the nurse, who beckoned. Her face had become normal; she smiled gravely, as he passed her, and she closed the door softly, leaving husband and wife together. His first impression was that the room smelled very sweet, filled with the fragrance of the flowers in the garden. The windows remained wide open. The light was stronger than on the landing, but soft, for the sun had not yet risen. Everything was in order. The habit of swift observation enabled him to grasp all this in a flash, although, so far as he knew, his eyes were fixed upon the bed. Susan lay upon her side of it. Her face was milk-white, with purple lines beneath eyes which seemed unduly sunken. Her pretty hair, done in two plaits, framed her face. To Quinney she looked exactly like a child who had been frightfully ill. It was impossible to think of her as a mother. Nor did he do so. He had forgotten the baby altogether, his mind was concentrated upon the Susan whom he loved, upon the Susan who appeared to have returned from a long journey into an unknown land, a new and strange Susan, for her lips never smiled at him, but in her tender eyes he recognized his wife, his own little woman, his most priceless possession, the soul of her shone steadily out of those eyes acclaiming his soul as he acclaimed hers. When he kissed her, she sighed. He slipped his hand beneath the bedclothes, and took her hand, murmuring her name again and again. She did not speak, and he did not wish her to speak. Her silence implied far more than speech.