"Oh, Nicky, how splendid it must be to be so certain." "It is," said Nicky solemnly. After all, it argued some divine compensation somewhere that a thing so destitute should remain unaware of its destitution, that a creature so futile and diminutive should be sustained by this conviction of his greatness. For he _was_ certain. Nothing could annihilate the illusion by which Nicky lived. But it was enough to destroy all certainty in anybody else, and there were moments when the presence of Nicky had this shattering effect on Jane. She could not have faced him until Hambleby was beyond his power to slay. But Nicky, so far from enlarging on his certainty, meditated with his eyes fixed on the clock. "You don't dine, do you," he said suddenly, "till half-past seven?" "You'll stay, won't you?" "I think I mustn't, thanks. I only wanted to know how long I had." "You've really half-an-hour, if you _won't_ dine." "I say, you're not expecting anybody else?" "I didn't expect Mr. Brodrick. I've kept everybody out so long that they've left off coming." "I wonder," said he, still meditating, "if _I_'ve come too soon." She held her breath. Nicky's voice was charged with a curious emotion. "I knew," he went on, "it wasn't any use my coming as long as you were immersed. I wouldn't for worlds do anything that could possibly injure your career." "Oh--my career----" "The question is," he meditated, "would it?" "Your coming, Nicky?" "My not keeping away. I suppose I ought to be content to stand aside and watch it, your genius, when it's so tremendous. I've no right to get in its way----" "You don't--you don't." "I wouldn't. I always should be standing aside and watching. That," said Nicky, "would be, you see, my attitude." "Dear Nicky," she murmured, "it's a beautiful attitude. It couldn't--your attitude--be anything but beautiful." "Only, of course," he added, "I'd be there." "But you are. You are there. And it's delightful to have you." His face, which had turned very white, flushed, but not with pleasure. It quivered with some sombre and sultry wave of pain. "I meant," he said, "if I were always there." His eyes searched her. She would not look at him. "Nobody," she said, "can be--always." "You wouldn't know it. You wouldn't see me--when you were immersed." "I'm afraid," she said, "I always am, I always shall be--immersed." "Won't there be moments?" "Oh, moments! Very few." "I wouldn't care how few there were," he said. "I know there can't be many." She understood him. There was nothing on earth like Nicky's delicacy. He was telling her that he would accept any terms, the very lowest; that he knew how Tanqueray had impoverished her; that he could live on moments, the moments Tanqueray had left. "There are none, Nicky. None," she said. "I see this isn't one of them." "All the moments--when there are any--will be more or less like this. I'm sorry," she said.