They had stuck him, of course, at her left, in the place of honour. Unprofitable as he was, they acknowledged him as a great man. He was there on the ground and on the sanction of his greatness. Nobody else, their manner had suggested, was great enough to be set beside Jinny in her splendid hour. His stature was prized because it gave the measure of hers. He was there also to officiate. He was the high priest of the unspeakable ritual. He would be expected presently to say something, to perform the supreme and final act of consecration. And for the life of him he could not think of anything to say. The things he thought could not be said while he sat there, at Brodrick's table. Afterwards, perhaps, when he and she were alone, if she insisted. But she would not insist. Far from it. She would not expect him to say anything. What touched him was her utter absence of any expectation, the candour with which she received his silence as her doom. The ceremony was growing more and more awful. Champagne had been brought. They were going--he might have foreseen it--they were going to drink to the long life of the Book. John Brodrick rose first, then Henry, then Levine. They raised their glasses. Jane's terrified eyes met theirs. "To the Book!" they said. "To the Book!" Tanqueray found himself gazing in agony at his glass where the bubbles danced and glittered, calling him to the toast. For the life of him he could not rise. Brodrick was drinking now, his eyes fixed upon his wife. And Tanqueray, for the life of him, could not help looking at Jane, to see how she would take it. She took it well. She faced the torture smiling, with a courage that was proof, if he had wanted proof, of her loyalty to Brodrick. Her smile trembled as it met Brodrick's eyes across the table, and the tenderness of it went to Tanqueray's heart. She held out her glass; and as she raised it she turned and looked full in Tanqueray's face, and smiled again, steadily. "To the Book!" she said. "To Nina Lempriere's book! You can drink now, George." He met her look. "Here's to you. You immortal Jinny." Lucid and comprehending, over the tilted glass his eyes approved her, adored her. She flushed under the unveiled, deliberate gaze. "Didn't I get you out of that nicely?" she said, an hour later, outside in the darkening garden, as she paced the terrace with him alone. The others, at Brodrick's suggestion, had left them to their communion. Brodrick's idea evidently was that the novelist would break silence only under cover of the night. "Yes," he said. "It was like your sweetness." "You can't say," she continued, "that I'm not appreciated in my family." Through the dark, as her face flashed towards him, he saw the little devil that sat laughing in her eyes. "You needn't be afraid to talk about it," she said. "And you needn't lie to me. I know it's a tragedy." He had never lied to her. It was not in him to fashion for her any tender lie.