"You said it would." "Yes. But I think I told you the condition. Do you remember?" She lowered her eyes, remembering. "What was it you said?" "That you'd have to pay the price." "Not yet. Not yet. And perhaps, after all, I shan't have to. I mayn't be able to finish." "What makes you think so?" "Because I've been so happy over it." Of a sudden there died out of her face the fawn-like, woodland look, the maternal wildness, the red-blooded joy. She was the harassed and unquiet Jinny whom he knew. It was so that her genius dealt with her. She had been swung high on a strong elastic, luminous wave; and now she was swept down into its trough. He comforted her as he had comforted her before. It was, he assured her, what he was there for. "We're all like that, Jinny, we're all like that. It's no worse than I feel a dozen times over one infernal book. It's no more than what you've felt about everything you've ever done--even Hambleby." "Yes." She almost whispered it. "It _is_ worse." "How?" "Well, I don't know whether it is that there isn't enough time--yet, or whether I've really not enough strength. Don't tell anybody I said so. Above all, don't tell Henry." "I shouldn't dream of telling Henry." "You see, sometimes I feel as if I was walking on a tight-rope of time, held for me, by somebody else, over an abyss; and that, if somebody else were suddenly to let go, there I should be--precipitated. And sometimes it's as if I were doing it all with one little, little brain-cell that might break any minute; or with one little tight nerve that might snap. It's the way Laura used to feel. I never knew what it was like till now. Poor little Laura, don't you remember how frightened we always were?" He was frightened now. He suggested that she had better rest. He tried to force from her a promise that she would rest. He pointed out the absolute necessity of rest. "That's it. I'm afraid to rest. Lest--later on--there shouldn't be any time at all." "Why shouldn't there be?" "Things," she said wildly and vaguely, "get hold of you. And yet, you'd have thought I'd cut myself loose from most." "Cut yourself looser." "But--from what?" "Your relations." "How can I. I wouldn't if I could." "Your friends, then--Nina, Laura, Prothero, Nicky--me." "You? I can't do without you." He smiled. "No, Jinny. I told you long ago you couldn't." He was moved, very strangely moved, by her admission. He had not had to help himself to that. She had given it to him, a gift from the unseen. "Well," he said presently, "what are you going to do?" "Oh--struggle along somehow." "I wouldn't struggle too hard." He meditated. "Look here, our natural tendency, yours and mine, is to believe that it's people that do all the mischief, and not that the thing itself goes. We'll believe anything rather than that. But we've got to recognize that it's capricious. It comes and goes."