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."
"Thank you. I'm not talking about her genius, or whatever the thing
is. I've no doubt it's everything you say. If she'd only keep to
that--the one thing she _can_ be sure of. Unless, of course, you've
made her sure."
"What do you mean?"
"Ah, if I only knew what _you_ meant."
"What I mean?"
"Yes, what you mean to do."