Henry tried to smile. "He's not a very good instance of his own theory.
Look at his wife."
"That only proves that Tanqueray's books aren't good for his wife. Not
that they aren't good for Tanqueray. Besides, Prothero says the same
thing."
"Prothero!"
"He ought to know. He's a doctor."
Henry dismissed Prothero with a gesture.
"Look here, Hugh. It simply comes to this. Either there must be no more
books or there must be no more children. You can't have both."
"There shall be no more children."
"As you like it. I don't advise it. Those books take it out of her
more."
He lowered his voice.
"I consider her last book responsible for that child's delicacy."
Brodrick flinched visibly at that.
"I don't care," the Doctor went on, "what Prothero and Tanqueray say.
They can't know. They don't see her. No more do you. You're out all day.
I shouldn't know myself if Gertrude Collett hadn't told me."
"Oh--Gertrude Collett."
"Nobody more likely to know. She's on the spot, watching her from hour
to hour."
"What did she tell you?"
"Why--that she works up-stairs, in her room--for hours--when she's
supposed to be lying down. She's doing it now probably."
"Gertrude knows that for a fact?"
"A fact. And she knows it was done last year too, before the baby was
born."
"And _I_ know," said Brodrick fiercely, "it was not."
"Have her in," said Sophy, "and ask her."
Brodrick had her in and asked her. Gertrude gave her evidence with a
gentle air of surprise that there could be any doubt as to what Mrs.
Brodrick had been up to--this year, at any rate. She flushed when
Brodrick confronted her with his certainty as to last year. She could
not, in the face of Brodrick's certainty, speak positively as to last
year.
She withdrew herself hastily, as from an unpleasant position, and was
followed by Sophy Levine.
"There's nothing for it," said Henry, "but to tell her."
"About the child?"
"About the child."
There was a terrible pause.
"Will you tell her," said Brodrick, "or shall I?"
"I'll tell her. I'll tell her now. But you must back me up."
Brodrick fetched Jane. He had found her as Gertrude had said. She was
heavy-eyed, and dazed with the embraces of her dream. But when she saw
the look that passed between Hugh and Henry her face was one white fear.
The two were about to arraign her. She took the chair that Henry held
for her.
Then he told her. And Brodrick backed him up with silence and a face
averted.
It was not until Henry had left them together that he spoke to her.
"Don't take it so hardly, Jinny," he said. "It's not as if you knew."
"I might have known," she answered.
She was thinking, "George told me that I should have to pay--that
there'd be no end to my paying."