Every morning about nine o'clock, now that summer was come, you found him in the garden, in his perambulator, barefooted and bareheaded, taking the air before the sun had power. Every morning his nurse brought him to his mother to be made much of; at nine when he went out, and at eleven when he came in, full of sleep. In and out he went through the French window of Jane's study, which opened straight on to the garden. He was wheeled processionally up and down, up and down the gravel walk outside it, or had his divine seat under the lime-tree on the lawn. Always he was within sight of Jane's windows. One Sunday morning (it was early, and he had not been out for five minutes, poor lamb) Jane called to the nurse to take him away out of her sight. "Take him away," she said. "Take him down to the bottom of the garden, where I can't see him." Brodrick heard her. He was standing on the gravel path, contemplating his son. It was his great merit that at these moments, and in the presence of other people, he betrayed no fatuous emotion. And now his face, fixed on the adorable infant, was destitute of all expression. At Jane's cry it flushed heavily. The flush was the only sign he gave that he had heard her. Without a word he turned and followed, thoughtfully, the windings of the exiled perambulator. From her place at the writing-table where she sat tormented, Jane watched them go. Ten minutes later Brodrick appeared at the window. He was about to enter. "Oh, no, no!" she cried. "_Not_ you!" He entered. "Jinny," he said gently, "what's the matter with you?" His voice made her weak and tender. "I want to write a book," she said. "Such a pretty book." "It's that, is it?" He sighed and stood contemplating her in ponderous thought. Jane took up some pens and played with them. "I can't write if you look at me like that," she said. "I won't look at you; but I'm going to talk to you." He sat down. She saw with terror his hostility to the thing she was about to do. "Talking's no good," she said. "It's got to be done." "I don't see the necessity." "It's not one of those things that can be seen." "No. But look here----" He was very gentle and forbearing. "Need you do it quite so soon?" "So soon? If I don't do it now, when _shall_ I do it?" He did not answer her. He sat looking at her hands in their nervous, restless play. Her grave eyes, under their flattening brows, gazed thoughtfully at him. The corners of her mouth lifted a little with their wing-like, quivering motion. Two moods were in her; one had its home in her brooding, tragic eyes, one in her mysterious, mocking lips. "It's no use, dear," she said. "You'll never turn me into that sort of woman." "What sort of woman?" "The sort of woman you like." He waited in silence for what she would say next. "It's not my fault, it's yours and Henry's. You shouldn't have made me go away and get strong. The thing always comes back to me when I get strong. It's _me_, you see."