[Illustration: She closed her eyes. "I'm quite happy."]
"For heaven's sake be honest. What is the use of lying, to me of all
people? Don't I know how happy you are?"
"But I am--I am, George. It's only this horrid, devilish thing that's
been tacked on to me----"
"That beautiful, divine thing that God made part of you, the thing that
you should have loved and made sacrifices to--if there were to have been
sacrifices--the thing you've outraged and frustrated, and done your best
to destroy, in your blind, senseless lust for what you call happiness.
You've no right to make It suffer."
"They say suffering's the best thing that can happen to it."
"Not Its suffering. _Your_ suffering is--the pain that makes you alive,
that stings and urges and keeps you going--going till you drop. To feel
the pull of the bit when you swerve on the road--Its road--to have the
lash laid about your shoulders when you jib--that's good. You women need
the lash more than we because you're more given to swerving and
jibbing. Look at Nina. _She_ was lashed into it if any woman ever was."
"She isn't the only one, George."
"I hope she isn't. God is good to the great artists sometimes, and he
was good to her."
"Do you suppose Laura thinks so?"
"Laura's not a great artist."
"And do you suppose Owen was thinking of Nina's genius when he married
Laura instead of her?"
"I don't think that Owen was thinking at all. It's not the thinkers who
are tools in the hands of destiny, dear child."
His gaze fell on the manuscript she was packing.
"Jinny, you know--you've always known that you can't do anything without
me."
"It seems as if I couldn't," she admitted.
"Well--be honest with me."
She looked at her watch. "There's not much time for me to be honest in,
but I'll try."
She sat down. She meditated a moment, making it out.
"You're right. I can't do much without you. I'm not perfectly alive when
you're not there. And I can't get away from you--as I can get away from
Hugh. I believe I remember every single thing you ever said to me. I'm
always wanting to talk to you. I don't want--always--to talk to Hugh.
But--I think more of him."
It seemed to her that it was only now that she really made it out. Her
fear had been no test, it threw no light on her, and it had passed. It
was only now, with Tanqueray's passionately logical issue facing her,
that she knew herself aright.
"There's another thing. I can't be sorry for you. I know I'm hurting
you, and I don't seem to care a bit. You can't make me sorry for you.
But I'm sorry for Hugh all the time."
"God forbid that you should be sorry for me, then."
"God does forbid it. It's not that Hugh _makes_ me sorry for him; he
never lets me know; but I do know. When his little finger aches I know
it, and I ache all over--I think it's aching a bit now; that's what
makes me want to go back to him."
"I see--Pity," said the psychologist.
"No. Not pity. It's simply that I know he needs me more than you do.
That's why I need him more than I need you."
"Pity," he reiterated, with a more insistent stress.
"No."
"Never mind what it is, if it's something that you haven't got for me."
"It is something that I haven't got for you. There isn't time," she
said, "to go into all that."
As she spoke he heard wheels grinding the stones in the upper lane, the
shriek of the brake grinding the wheel, and the shuffling of men's feet
on the flagged yard outside.
He shut the door and faced her, making his last stand.
"You know what you're going back to."
"I know."
"To suffer," he said, "and to cause suffering--to
one--two--three--innocent people."
"No. Things will be different."
"They won't. _We_ shall be the same."
She shook her head a little helplessly.
"At any rate," he said, "_you_ won't be different."
"If I could--if I only could be----"
"But you can't. You know you can't."
"I can--if I give it up--once for all."
"What? Your divine genius?"
"Whatever it is. When I've killed that part of me I shall be all right.
I mean--_they_'ll be all right."
"You can't kill it. You can starve it, drug it, paralyze it, but you
can't kill it. It's stronger than you. You'll go through hell--I know
it, I've been there--you'll be like a drunkard trying to break himself
of the drink habit."
"Yes. But some day I shall break myself, or be broken; and there'll be
peace."
"_Will_ there!"
"There'll be something."
She rose. The wheels sounded nearer, and stopped. The gate of the
farmyard opened. The feet of the men were at the door.