Why couldn't he? He had reckoned with her genius when he married her. He had honestly believed that he cared for it as he cared for her, that Jinny was not to be thought of apart from her genius. He had found Henry's opinion of it revolting, absurd, intolerable. And imperceptibly his attitude had changed. In spite of himself he was coming round to Henry's view, regarding genius as a malady, a thing abnormal, disastrous, not of nature; or if normal and natural--for Jinny--a thing altogether subordinate to Jinny's functions as a wife and mother. There was no sane man who would not take that view, who would not feel that nature was supreme. And Jinny had proved that left to nature, to her womanhood, she was sound and perfect. Jinny's genius had had, as he put it, pretty well its fling. It was nature's turn. Under all his arguments there lurked, unrecognized and unsuspected, the natural man's fear of the thing not of nature, of its dominion, coming between him and her, slackening, perhaps sundering the tie of flesh. Through the tie of flesh, insensibly, he had come to look on Jinny as his possession. "What would you do," he said, "if the little chap were to get ill?" She turned as if he had struck her. "Ill? Why couldn't you _tell_ me he was ill?" "But he isn't. I was only----" "Does Henry say he's ill?" "Henry? Oh Lord, no." "You're lying. I'll go to him and see----" She made a rush for the window. He sprang after her and caught her. She struggled in his arms. "Jinny, you little fool. There's nothing--nothing----He's bursting with health." "What did you mean, then?" "I meant--supposing he were ill----" "You meant to frighten me?" She sat down and he saw her fighting for her breath. He knelt beside her and took her in his arms, murmuring inarticulate things in his terror. At his touch she turned to him and kissed him. "Hugh, dear," she said, "don't frighten me again. It's not necessary." All that week, and for many weeks, she busied herself with the child and with the house. It was as if she were trying, passionately, to make up for some brief disloyalty, some lapse of tenderness. Then, all of a sudden she flagged; she was overcome by an intolerable fatigue and depression. Brodrick was worried, but he kept his anxiety to himself. He was afraid now of doing or saying the wrong thing. One Saturday evening Jinny came to him in his study. She carried the dreadfully familiar pile of bills and tradesmen's books. "Is it those horrible accounts?" he said. She was so sick, so white and harassed, so piteously humble, that he knew. She had got them all wrong again. "I did _try_ to keep them," she said. "Don't try. Leave the damned things alone." "I _have_ left them," she wailed. "And look at them." He looked. A child, he thought, could have kept them straight. They were absurdly simple. But out of their simplicity, their limpid, facile, elementary innocence, Jinny had wrought fantasies, marvels of confusion, of intricate complexity.