Nina pondered. "I believe," she said presently, "you _do_ know." She paused on that a moment. "It needn't have happened," she said. "It wouldn't if you'd shown him that you cared." Jane looked at her then. "I did show him," she said. "That's how it happened." "It couldn't. Not that way." "It did. I waked him up. I made him restless, I made him want things. But there was nothing--nothing----" "You forget. I've seen him with you. What's more, I've seen him without you." "Ah, but it wasn't _that_. Not for a moment. It could never have been _that_." "You could have made it that. You could have made it anything you liked. Jinny! If I'd been as sure of him as you were, I'd never have let him go. I'd have held on----" Her hands' tense clutch on the arm of her chair showed how she would have held on. "You see," said Jinny, "I was never sure of him." A silence fell between them. "You were in it," said Nina, troubling the silence. "It must--it must have been something you did to him." "Or something I didn't do." "Yes. Something you didn't do. You didn't know how." Jane could have jumped at this sudden echo of her thought. "And _she_ did," said Nina. She got up and leaned against the chimney-piece, looking down on Jane. "Poor Jinny," she said. "How I hated you three years ago." Jane remembered. It was just three years since Nina had gone away without saying a word and hidden herself among the mountains where she was born. In her isolation she had conceived and brought forth her "Tales of the Marches." And a year ago she had come back to them, the Nina whom they knew. "You can't hate me now," Jane said. "I believe I would if you had been sure of him. But I don't hate you. I don't even hate her." "Why should you?" "Why should I? When I don't believe she's sure of him, either. She's called out the little temporary animal or the devil in him. That's what she's married. It won't last." "No, Nina. Nicky said she was good." "It's wonderful how good women manage these things." "Not when they're absolutely simple." "How do you know she's simple?" "Oh--because I'm not." "Simplicity," said Nina, "would only give her more rope." "Nina--there's one thing Nicky didn't tell us. He never let on that she was pretty. I suppose he thought that was more than we could bear." "How do you know she's pretty?" "That's how I see her. Very pretty, very soft and tender. Shy at first, and then very gently, very innocently letting herself go. And always rather sensuous and clinging." "Poor idiot--she's done for if she clings. I'm not sorry for George, Jinny; I'm sorry for the woman. He'll lay her flat on the floor and wipe his boots on her." Jane shrank back. "Nina," she said, "you loved him. And yet--you can tear him to pieces." "You think I'm a beast, do you?" "Yes. When you tear him--and before people, too." She shrank a little further. Nina was now sitting on the floor with her back against Jane's knees.