"Dear Nicky," she said, "are you consoling me?" He stood solemnly before her, inspired, positively flaming with annunciation. "Wait--wait," he said, "till you've seen Him. I won't say a word." Nicky had never made himself more beautiful; he had never yet, in all his high renouncing, so sunk, so hidden himself behind the splendour that was Tanqueray. "And Prothero" (he laid beauty upon beauty), "he'll tell you himself. He's on his knees." The moments passed. Nicky in his beauty and his pain wandered outside in the garden, leaving her to Prothero and Laura. And in the drawing-room, where Tanqueray waited for his turn, Jane's family appraised her triumph. Henry, to Caro Bickersteth in a corner, was not sure that he did not, on the whole, regret it. These books wrecked her nerves. She was, Henry admitted, a great genius; but great genius, what was it, after all, but a great Neurosis? Not far from them Louis Levine, for John's benefit, calculated the possible proceeds of the new book. Louis smiled his mobile smile as he caught the last words of Henry's diagnosis. Henry might say what he liked. Neurosis, to that extent, was a valuable asset. He could do, Louis said, with some of it himself. Brodrick, as he surveyed with Tanqueray the immensity of his wife's achievement, wondered whether, for all that, she had not paid too high a price. And Sophy Levine, who overheard him, whispered to Frances that it was he, poor dear, who paid. Tanqueray got up and left the room. He had heard through it all the signal that he waited for, the sound of the opening of Jane's door. Her eyes searched his at the very doorway. "Is it all right, George?" she whispered. Her hand, her thin hand, held his until he answered. "It's tremendous." "Do you remember two years ago--when you wouldn't drink?" "I drank this time. I'm drunk, Jinny, drunk as a lord." "I swore I'd make you drink, this time; if I died for it." She leaned back in the corner of her couch, looking at him. "Thank heaven you've never lied to me; because now I know." "I wonder if you do. It's alive, Jinny; it's organic; it's been conceived and born." He brought his chair close to the table that stood beside her couch, a barrier between them. "It's got what we're all praying for--that divine unity----" "I didn't think it could have it. _I_'m torn in pieces." "You? I knew you would be." "It wasn't the book." "What was it?" he said fiercely. "It was chiefly, I think, Mabel Brodrick's illness." "_Whose_ illness?" "John's wife's. You don't know what it means." "I can see. You let that woman prey on you. She sucks your life. You're white; you're thin; you're ill, too." She shook her head. "Only tired, George." "Why do you do it? Why do you do it, Jinny?" he pleaded. "Ah--I must." He rose and walked up and down the room; and each time as he turned to face her he burst out into speech. "What's Brodrick doing?"