Brodrick's head was bowed forward on his chest. His eyes, under his lowering brows, looked up at Jane's, gathering from them her judgment of Owen Prothero. Prothero's case defied all rule and precedent, and Brodrick was not prepared with a judgment of his own. Now and then a gleam of comprehension, caught from Jane, illuminated his face and troubled it. He showed, not as a happy creature of the flesh, but as a creature of the flesh made uncontent, divinely pierced by the sharp flame of the spirit. It was so that Jane saw him, once, when his persistent gaze drew hers for an inconsiderable moment. Now and then, at a pause in the reader's voice, Brodrick sighed heavily and shifted his position. Nina leaned back as she listened, propping her exhausted body, her soul surrendered as ever to the violent rapture; caught now and carried away into a place beyond pain, beyond dreams, beyond desire. And Laura, who did not believe in God, Laura sat motionless, her small insurgent being stilled to the imperceptible rhythm of her breath. Over her face there passed strange lights, strange tremors, a strange softening of the small indomitable mouth. It was more than ever the face of a child, of a flower, of all things innocent and open. But her eyes were the eyes of a soul whom vision makes suddenly mature. They stared at Tanqueray without seeing him, held by the divine thing they saw. She still sat so, while Brodrick and Nicholson, like men released, came forward and congratulated the novelist as on some achievement of his own. They did it briefly, restrained by the silence that his voice had sunk into. Everybody's nerves were tense, troubled by the vibrating passage of the supersensual. The discussion that followed was spasmodic and curt. Nicky charged into the silence with a voice of violent affirmation. "He _is_ great," said poor Nicky. "Too great," said Brodrick, "for the twentieth century." Nina reminded him that the twentieth century had only just begun, and Jane remarked that it hadn't done badly since it had begun with him. Laura said nothing; but, as they parted outside in the square, she turned eastwards with Nina. "Does he really mind seeing people?" she said. "It depends," said Nina. "He's seen George." "Would he mind your bringing him to see me some day? I want to know him." Nina's face drew back as if Laura had struck her. Its haggard, smitten look spoke as if Nina had spoken. "What do you want to know him for?" it said. "He hasn't got to be seen," said Nina herself savagely. She was overwrought. "He's got to be heard. You've heard him." "It's because I've heard him that I want to see him." Nina paused in her ferocious stride and glanced at the little thing. The small face of her friend had sunk from its ecstasy to its sullen suffering, its despondency, its doubt. Nina was stung by compassion. "Do you want to see him very much?" she said. "I wouldn't ask you if I didn't." "All right. You shall. I'll make him come." XXIII