Obscurely and with difficulty she saw, she made it out. The thing he spoke of was so inconceivable, so tremendous that at times he was afraid of having it, at times afraid of never having it again. And because, as he had said, the fear of not having it was worse than any fear, he had to be sure of it, he had to put it to the test. So he went down into life, into the thick of it, among all the horrors and the terrors. He knew that if he could do that and carry his vision through it, if it wasn't wiped out, if he only saw it once, for a moment afterwards, he would be sure of it. He wasn't really sure of it until then, not a bit surer than she was now. No; he was always sure of it. It was himself he was not sure of; himself that he put to the test. And it was himself that he had carried through it. He had lived face to face with all the corporeal horrors; he had handled them, tasted them, he, the man without a skin, with every sense, every nerve in him exposed, exquisitely susceptible to torture. And he had come through it all as through a thing insubstantial, a thing that gave way before his soul and its exultant, processional vision of God. "The absurd thing is that after all I haven't grown a skin. I'm _still_ afraid of the sight of blood." "So I suppose _I_ shall go on being afraid." "Probably. But you won't turn tail any more than I should. _You_ never ran away." "There are worse things than running away. All the things that go on inside you, the cruel, dreadful things; the cowardices and treacheries. Things that come of never being alone. I have to sit up at night to be alone." "My child, you mustn't. It's simply criminal." "If I didn't," she said, "I should never get it in." He understood her to be alluding thus vaguely to her gift. "I know it's criminal, with Papa depending on me, and yet I do it. Sometimes I'm up half the night, hammering and hammering at my own things; things, I mean, that won't sell, just to gratify my vanity in having done them." "To satisfy your instinct for perfection. God made you an artist." She sighed. "He's made me so many things besides. That's where the misery comes in." "And a precious poor artist you'd be if he hadn't, and if the misery didn't come in." She shook her head, superior in her sad wisdom. "Misery's all very well for the big, tragic people like Nina, who can make something out of it. Why throw it away on a wretched, clever little imp like me?" "And if _you_'re being hammered at to satisfy an instinct for perfection that you're not aware of----?" She shook her head again. "I'm certainly not aware of it. Still, I can understand that. I mean I can understand an instinct for perfection making shots in the dark and trying things too big for it and their not coming off. But--look at Papa." She held her hands out helplessly. The gesture smote his heart.