"The horrible and brutal thing about it is that it stops you feeling. It would, you know." "Would it? I shouldn't have thought it would have made _that_ difference." "That's just the difference it does make." He moved impatiently. "You don't know what you're talking about." "I wouldn't talk about it--only--it's much better that you should know what it is, than that you should think it's what it isn't." She looked at him. His forehead still displayed a lowering incredulity. "If you don't believe me, ask George Tanqueray." "George Tanqueray?" His nerves felt the shock of the thought that had come to him, just now when he watched her sleep. He had not expected to meet Tanqueray again so soon and in the open. "How much do you think he cares for poor Rose when he's in the state I'm in?" His face darkened as he considered her question. He knew all about poor Rose's trouble, how her tender flesh and blood had been made to pay for Tanqueray's outrageous genius. He and Henry had discussed it. Henry had his own theory of it. He offered it as one more instance of the physiological disabilities of genius. It was an extreme and curious instance, if you liked, Tanqueray himself being curious and extreme. But it had not occurred to Brodrick that Henry's theory of Tanqueray might be applied to Jane. "What on earth do you know about George Tanqueray?" he said. "How _could_ you know a thing like that?" "I know because I'm like him." "No, Jinny, it's not the same thing. You're a woman." She smiled, remembering sadly how that was what George in a brutal moment had said she was not to be. It showed after all how well he knew her. "I'm more like George Tanqueray," she said, "than I'm like Gertrude Collett." He frowned, wondering what Gertrude Collett had to do with it. "We're all the same," she said. "It takes us that way. You see, it tires us out." He sighed, but his face lightened. "If nothing's left of a big strong man like George Tanqueray, how much do you suppose is left of me? It's perfectly simple--simpler than you thought. But it has to be." It was simpler than he had thought. He understood her to say that in its hour, by taking from her all passion, her genius was mindful of its own. "I see," he said; "it's simply physical exhaustion." She closed her eyes again. He saw and rose against it, insanely revolted by the sacrifice of Jinny's womanhood. "It shows, Jinny, that you _can't_ stand the strain. Something will have to be done," he said. "Oh, what?" Her eyes opened on him in terror. His expression was utterly blank, utterly helpless. He really hadn't an idea. "I don't know, Jinny." He suggested that she should stay in bed for breakfast. She stayed. Down-stairs, over the breakfast-table, he presented to Gertrude Collett a face heavy with his suffering. He was soothed by Gertrude's imperishable tact. She was glad to hear that Mrs. Brodrick had stayed in bed for breakfast. It would do her good.