For a moment Jane suffered an abominable pang as she realized the things that were permissible to Rose, the things that she could say to Tanqueray, the things that she might do for him. At first she had looked away so that she might not see these tender approaches of Rose to Tanqueray. Then she remembered that this was precisely what she had come out to see,--that she had got to realize Rose. And thus, as she brought herself round to face it fairly, she caught in a flash Rose's attitude and the secret of it. It was not a thing flung in her face to madden her, it had no bridal insolence about it, and none of the consecrated folly of the bride. It was a thing of pathos and of innocence, something between the uncontrollable tenderness, the divine infatuation of a mother, and the crude obsession of a girl uncertain of the man she has set her unhappy heart on; a thing, Rose's attitude, stripped of all secrecy by its sadness. But there was nothing abject in it. It was strong; it was militant under its pathos and its renunciation. With such a look Rose would have faced gates of death closing between her and Tanqueray. So Jane realized Rose. And she said to herself, "What a good thing Tanks never did care for me. It would be awful if I made her more uncertain of him." At this moment Tanqueray said, "How's Hambleby?" "He's not quite so well as he was," said Jane. "I'm sorry to hear that," said Tanqueray. "Is anybody ill?" said Rose. She was always interested in anybody who was ill. "Only Hambleby," said Tanqueray. "Who's he?" said Rose. "The man Jinny's in love with." Rose was shocked at this violation of the holy privacies. She looked reprovingly at Tanqueray. "Is your tea as you like it?" she inquired, with tact, to make it more comfortable for Jane. "I'm going to smoke," said Tanqueray. "Will you come to my den, Jinny, and talk about Hambleby?" Rose looked as if positively she couldn't believe her ears. But it was at Jane that she looked, not at Tanqueray. "No," said Jinny. "I don't want to talk about Hambleby. I want to talk to your wife." "You mustn't mind what 'e says," said Rose, when they were alone together. "'E sometimes says things to me that make me fair jump." "I didn't jump," said Jane, "did I?" "No. You took it a deal better than I should have done." It was odd, but Rose was ten times more at her ease since Tanqueray's awful reference to Hambleby. And she seemed happier, too. "You see," said Jane, "there wasn't much to take. Hambleby's only a man in a book I'm writing." "Oh--only a man in a book." Rose looked depressed. There was a silence which even Jane found it difficult to break. Then she had an inspiration. "I'm supposed to be in love with him because I can't think or talk about anything else." "That's just like Mr. Tanqueray," said Rose. "Only he isn't in love with the people in his books," said Jane. "He must think a deal of 'em." "He says he doesn't."