g his singular sulkiness and
silence.

She forgave him, for of course he was disturbed about Gertrude Collett.
If he wanted to marry Gertrude, why on earth couldn't he marry her and
have done with it? Jane thought.

In order to think better she had closed her eyes. When she opened them
again she found Brodrick seated in an opposite chair, quietly regarding
her. She was alone with him. The others had all gone.

"I wasn't asleep," said Jane.

"I didn't suppose you were," said Brodrick; "if you were reading
Prothero."

Brodrick's conscience was beginning to hurt him rather badly. There were
moments when he connected Jane's illness with Prothero's departure. He,
therefore, by sending Prothero away, was responsible for her illness.

"If you want to read," he said, "I'll go."

"I don't want to read. I want to talk."

"About Prothero?"

"No, not about Mr. Prothero. About that serial----"

"What serial?"

"My serial. Your serial," said she.

Brodrick said he wasn't going to talk shop on Sunday. He wanted to
forget that there were such things as serials.

"I wish _I_ could forget," said she.

She checked the impulse that was urging her to say, "You really ought to
marry Gertrude."

"I wish you could," he retorted, with some bitterness.

"How can I?" she replied placably, "when it was the foundation of our
delightful friendship?"

Brodrick said it had nothing whatever to do with their friendship.

"Well," said Jane, "if it wasn't that it was Hambleby."

At that Brodrick frowned so formidably that Jane could have cried out,
"For goodness' sake go and marry her and leave off venting your bad
temper upon me."

"It had to be something," said she. "Why shouldn't it be Hambleby? By
the way, George Tanqueray was perfectly right. I was in love with him. I
mean, of course, with Hambleby."

"You seem," said Brodrick, "to be in love with him still, as far as I
can make out."

"That's why," said Jane, "I can't help feeling that there's something
wrong with him. George says you never really know the people you're in
love with."

There was a gleam of interest now in Brodrick's face. He was evidently,
Jane thought, applying Tanqueray's aphorism to Gertrude.

"It doesn't make any difference," he said.

"I should have thought," said she, "it would have made _some_."

"It doesn't. If anything, you know them rather better."

"Oh," said she, "it makes _that_ difference, does it?"

Again she thought of Gertrude.