de. It
was possible, it was more than possible, it was hideously probable that
this time she would achieve popularity. It was just the sort of
terrible, ironic thing that happened. If it did happen she would not be
able to look George Tanqueray in the face.

The date of the Event was fixed now, the fifteenth of July. It was like
death. She had never thought of it as a personal experience so long as
its hour remained far-off in time. But the terror of it was on her, now
that the thing was imminent, that she could count the hours.

The day came, the Birthday, as Brodrick called it, of the Great Book. He
had told Tanqueray long ago that it was the biggest thing she had done
yet. He bore himself, this husband of Jane's, with an air of triumphant
paternity, as if (Tanqueray reflected) he had had a hand in it. He had
even sent Tanqueray an early copy. Tanqueray owned that the fellow was
justified. He thought he could see very plainly Brodrick's hand, his
power over the infatuated Jinny.

By way of celebrating the fifteenth he had asked Tanqueray to dinner.

The Levines were there and the John Brodricks, Dr. Henry Brodrick and
Mrs. Heron. But for the presence of the novelist, the birthday dinner
was indistinguishable, from any family festival of Brodricks. Solemn it
was and ceremonial, yet intimate, relieved by the minute absurdities,
the tender follies of people who were, as Tanqueray owned, incomparably
untainted. It was Jinny's great merit, after all, that she had not
married a man who had the taint. The marvel was how the editor had
contrived to carry intact that innocence of his through the horrors of
his obscene profession. It argued an incorruptible natural soundness in
the man.

And only the supreme levity of innocence could have devised and
accomplished this amazing celebration. It took, Tanqueray said to
himself, a mind like Brodrick's to be unaware of Jinny's tragedy, to be
unaware of Jinny.

He himself was insupportably aware of her, as she sat, doomed and
agonizing, in her chair at the head of Brodrick's table.

They had stuck him, of course, at her left, in the place of honour.
Unprofitable as he was, they acknowledged him as a great man. He was
there on the ground and on the sanction of his greatness. Nobody else,
their manner had suggested, was great enough to be set beside Jinny in
her splendid hour. His stature was prized because it gave the measure of
hers. He was there also to officiate. He was the