She had known all the time that if she was not to go on thinking about
George Tanqueray she must see his wife. When she had once thoroughly
realized his wife it would be easier to give him up to her.
It was George who had tried to prevent her realizing Rose. He, for his
part, refused to be given up to Rose or in any way identified with her.
Nina was right. His marriage had made no difference to George.
But now that she realized Rose, it made all the difference to Jane. Rose
was realized so completely that she turned George out of the place he
persisted in occupying in Jane's mind. Jane had not allowed herself to
feel that there was anything to be sorry about in George's marriage. She
was afraid of having to be sorry for George, because, in that case,
there would be no end to her thinking about him. But if there was any
sorrow in George's marriage it was not going to affect George. She would
not have to be sorry about him.
Like Nina, Jane was sorry for the woman.
That little figure strayed in and out of Jane's mind without disturbing
her renewed communion with Hambleby.
Up till now she had contrived to keep the very existence of Hambleby a
secret from her publishers. But they had got wind of him somehow, and
had written many times inquiring when he would be ready? As if she could
tell, as if her object was to get him ready, and not rather to prolong
the divine moments of his creation. She would have liked to have kept
him with her in perpetual manuscript, for in this state he still seemed
a part of herself. Publicity of any sort was a profanation. When
published he would be made to stand in shop windows coarsely labelled,
offering himself for sale at four-and-six; he would go into the houses
of people who couldn't possibly appreciate him, and would suffer
unspeakable things at their hands. As the supreme indignity, he would be
reviewed. And she, his creator, would be living on him, profiting by his
degradation at percentages which made her blush. To be thinking of what
Hambleby would "fetch" was an outrage to his delicate perfection.
But she had to think of it; and after all, when she had reckoned it up,
he would not "fetch" so very much. She had failed to gather in one half
of the golden harvest. The serial rights of Hambleby lay rotting in the
field. George used to manage all these dreadful things for her. For
though George was not much cleverer than she he liked to think he was.
It was his weakness to imagine that he had a head for business. And in
the perversity of things he had really done better for her than he had
ever done for himself. That was the irony of it; when, if she could, she
would have taken her luck and shared it with him.
Anyhow, business without George had been very uninteresting; and
therefore she had not attended to it. There had been opportunities as
golden as you please, but she had not seized them. There had been
glorious openings for Hambleby, far-reaching prospects, noble vistas, if
only he had been born six months sooner. And when George said that
Hambleby would be popular, he was, of course, only tormenting her. He
never meant half of the unpleasant things he said.
It was now April. Hambleby waited only for the crowning chapter. The
arrangements for his publication had been made, all but the date, which
was left unsettled, in case at the last moment a new opening should be
found.
At four o'clock on an April afternoon Jane was meditating on her affairs
when the staircase bell rang somewhat imperiously. It sounded like
somebody determined to get in. A month ago she would have taken no
notice of it. Now she was afraid not to open her door lest Tanqueray
should be there.
It was not Tanqueray. It was Hugh Brodrick.
For a second she wondered at him, not taking him in. She had forgotten
that Brodrick existed. It was his eyes she recognized him by. They were
fixed on her, smiling at her wonder. He stood on the little square of
landing between the door and the foot of the staircase.
"Of course," he said. "You're just going out?"
"No, do come in."
"May I? I don't believe you know in the least who I am."
"I do, really. I'm very glad to see you."
He followed her up the stairs and into her sitting-room, the small
white-painted sitting-room, with its three straight windows looking on
the Square. He went to one of the windows and looked out.
"Yes," he said, "there is a charm about it."
He spoke as if his mind had been long occupied with this place she lived
in; as if they had disputed together many times as to the attraction of
Kensington Square, and he had been won over, at last, reluctantly, to
her view. It all strengthened the impression he gave of being absorbed
in her.
He turned to her.
"You like living here? All alone? Cut off from everybody?"
She remembered then how they had really discussed this question.
"I like it very much indeed."
"Well----" (He said it sadly.) "Do you write in this room? At that
table?"
"Yes."
He looked at the table as if he thought it all very interesting and very
incomprehensible and very sad. He looked at the books on the shelf close
to the table and read George Tanqueray's name on them. He frowned
slightly at the books and turned away.
She sat down. He did not take the chair she indicated, but chose another
where he could see her rather better. He was certainly a man who knew
his own mind.
"I've called," he said, "a great many times. But I've always missed
you."
"So at last you gave it up? Like everybody else."
"Does it look as if I'd given it up?"
She could not say it did.
"No," he said. "I never give anything up. In that I'm not like everybody
else."
He wasn't, she reflected. And yet somehow he ought to have been. There
was nothing so very remarkable about him.
He smiled. "I believe," he said, "you thought I was the man come to tune
the piano."
"Did I look as if I did?"
"A little."
"Do I now?" She was beginning to like Brodrick.
"Not so much. As it happens, I have come partly for the pleasure of
seeing you and partly--to discuss, if you don't mind, some business."