Having reconstructed Julia, she unlocked the drawer that held the hidden treasure, the thing that he had said was so perfect, the last consummate manifestation of the gift. They had found between them the right word for it. It was only a gift, a thing that he had given her, that if he chose he could at any moment take away. What had come from her came only through him. She owned, with a sort of exultation, that there was nothing in the least creative in her. She had not one virile quality; only this receptivity of hers, infinitely plastic, infinitely tender. What lay in the lamplight under her caressing hand had been born of their friendship. It was their spiritual child. She bowed her head and kissed it. She said to herself: "It is not me, but his part in me that he loves. If I am true to it he will be true to me." As she raised her head her eyes were wet with tears. She looked round the room. Everything in it (but the thing that lay there under her hand) seemed suddenly to have lost its interest and its charm. Something had gone from it, something that had been living with her in secret for many days, that could not live with her now any more. It had dropped into the deep when Julia stripped herself (it now seemed to Freda) and took her shining, sacrificial plunge. "What, after all," said Freda, "has she taken from me? Nothing that I ever really had." IV It was Sunday afternoon. Caldecott made a point of going to see Miss Nethersole on Sunday afternoons. He felt so safe with Julia. This particular Sunday afternoon was their first since Julia had become acquainted with Miss Farrar. It was therefore inevitable that their talk should turn to her. "Your friend is charming," said Julia. "Yes," he said, "yes." He seemed reluctant to acknowledge it. Julia made a note of the reluctance. "You must be very proud of her." He challenged the assertion with a glance which questioned her right to make it. Julia saw that his mind was balancing itself on some fine and perilous edge, and that it was as yet unaware of its peril. "Of course you're proud of her," said she, in a voice that steadied him. "Of course I am," he agreed. "Is it really true that she owes everything to you?" "No," he said, "it isn't in the least true." "She says so." "Oh, that's her pretty way of putting it." "She thinks it." "Not she. If she does it's because she's made that way. She's awfully nice, you know." "She's too nice--to be allowed to----" "Well?" "To throw herself away." "She isn't throwing herself away. She's found the one thing she can do, and she's doing it divinely. I never met a woman who was so sure of herself." "Oh, she's sure enough, poor child." "I say, you don't mean to tell me you don't believe in her? Not that it matters whether you do or not."