"I hope you're not going to blame me and marriage this time?" asked Geoffrey, with a faint accent of anxiety under his light manner. Helen smiled at him frankly. "Good God, no," she said, "I know better now. I've got you perfectly in place, Geoffrey. You're the one absolutely necessary thing in my life that I shall probably always stick to. All this stuff," she waved an airy hand round the studio, "is variable, if you know what I mean. I can't do without it, but it changes. Heaven knows it's bad enough now, but sometime I'm going to do something good." "Do you mean you've arranged your life in compartments, with me in one and your painting in another, and so on?" "No I don't mean that. I did try it at one time, but it was hopeless. When I got mad with my painting, my rage overlapped out of the painting compartment into yours. But now it's different; you're separate from everything and yet at the bottom of everything. I can't explain quite what I mean, but it works all right." "Darling, do you mean that in your mind I'm independent of the other things you care about, but in a way they are dependent on me?" "Yes, I think that's it. Anyhow I'm happy." "So am I, Helen, really frightfully happy." "And what's more Geoffrey I think I'll probably be able to fit a child in too." "Do you mean that you want one? Don't do it for me; I'm perfectly satisfied with things as they are." Helen came over and sat beside Geoffrey on the sofa, leaning back in her corner and gazing at the fire. She was silent for a few minutes, and Geoffrey looking at the firelight playing over her bright hair wondered vaguely what she was thinking. "I don't think I specially want one," she said at last, "at least if I do it's for pure idiotic sentimental reasons. But on the other hand I'm not sure that I won't paint better after I've had one; you can't be certain really that every possible experience isn't all to the good." "I think probably it is," agreed Geoffrey, "Of course I like you to want one for idiotic sentimental reasons; it makes me feel surer of you; but quite apart from that there is your painting. I know you're depressed about it just now and it might start you off working again if you had a child." "Geoffrey, you're rather sweet to me," said Helen impulsively, "I think it's touching of you to understand that having a baby might make me paint better. It's a topsy turvy idea I know, but I can't help seeing it in that way." "Sometime I suppose you'll get used to my being able to see things from your point of view," said Geoffrey contentedly. Helen lifted his hand and kissed it. "I don't think I'll get too used to you, darling," she said, "I really love you very much." The telephone rang in the hall before Geoffrey could answer her. "Damn," she said getting up lazily, "I'm sure that's your mother, she always rings up at this time of night because she feels sure of getting us both at once."