"No, Jinny, the whole point is that you're not strong. You're not fit for anything creative." At that she laughed. "You're not, really. Why, how old is that child?" "Six months. No--seven." "Well, Henry said it would take you a whole year to get over it." "_I_ thought I should never get over it. We were both wrong." "My child, it's palpable. You're nervy to the last degree. I never saw you so horribly restless." "Not more so than when I first knew Baby was coming." "Well, quite as much." She gave him a little look that he did not understand. "Quite as much," she said. "And you were patient with me then." He maintained a composure that invited her to observe how extremely patient he was now. "And do you remember--afterwards--before he came--how quiet I was and how contented? I wasn't a bit nervy, or restless, or--or troublesome." He smiled, remembering. "Can't you see that anything creative--everything creative must be like that?" He became grave again, having failed to follow her. "Presently, if this thing goes all right, I shall be quite, quite sane. That's the way it takes you just at first. Then, when you feel it coming to life and shaping itself, you settle down into a peace." Now he understood. "Yes," he said, "and you pay for it after." "My dear, we pay for everything--after." She leaned back in her chair. The movement withdrew her a little from Brodrick's unremitting gaze. "There are women--angels naturally--who become devils if they can't have children. I'm an angel--you know I'm an angel--but I shall be a devil if I can't have this. Can't you see that it's just as natural and normal--for me?" "It's pretty evident," he said, "that you can't have both. You weren't built to stand the double strain----" "And you mean--you mean----" "I mean that it would be better for you if you could keep off it for a while. At any rate while the child's young." "But he'll be young, though, for ages. And if--if there are any more of him, there'll be no end to the keeping off." "You needn't think about that," he said. "It would be all very well," she said, "if it were simpler; if either you or I could deal with the thing, if we could just wring its neck and destroy it. I would if it would make you any happier, but I can't. It's stronger than I. I _can't_ keep off it." He pondered. He was trying, painfully, to understand the nature of this woman whom he thought he knew, whom, after all, it seemed, he did not know. "You used to understand," she said. "Why can't you now?"