lie
to me. I know it's a tragedy."

He had never lied to her. It was not in him to fashion for her any
tender lie.

"It's worse than a tragedy. It's a sin, Jinny. And that's what I would
have saved you from. Other people can sin and not suffer. You can't.
There's your tragedy."

She raised her head.

"There shall be no more tragedies."

He went on as if he had not heard her. "It wouldn't have mattered if it
had been bad all through. But neither you nor I, Jinny, have ever
written, probably we never shall write, anything to compare with the
beginning of that book. My God! To think that there were only six
months--six months--between that beginning and that end."

She smiled, saying to herself, "Only six months. Yes. But what months!"

"You've killed a masterpiece," he said, "between you."

"Do you mean Hugh?" she said. "What had he to do with it?"

"He married you."

"My crime was committed before he married me."

"Exactly." She was aware of the queer, nervous, upward jerk of his
moustache, precluding the impermissible--"When you were in love with
him."

Her face darkened as she turned to him.

"Let's talk about Nina's book. George--there isn't anybody like her. And
I knew, I knew she'd do it."

"Did you know that she did it before she saw Prothero."

"I know."

"And that she's never written a line since?"

"When she does it will be immense. Because of him."

"Possibly. She hasn't married him."

"After all, George, if it comes to that, you're married too."

"Yes. But I married a woman who can't do me any harm."

"Could anybody."

She stood still there, on the terrace, fronting him with the scorn of
her question.

He did not answer her at first. His face changed and was silent as his
thought. As they paced up and down again he spoke.

"I don't mind, Jinny; if you're happy; if you're really content."

"You see that I am."

Her voice throbbed. He caught the pure, the virginal tremor, and knew it
for the vibration of her soul. It stirred in him a subtle, unaccountable
pang.

She paused, brooding.

"I shall be," she said, "even if I never do anything again."

"Nothing," he assured her, "can take from you the things you have done.
Look at Hambleby. He's enough. After all, Jinny, you might have died
young and just left us that. We ought to be glad that, as it is, we've
got so much of you."

"So much----"

Almost he could have said she sighed.

"Nothing can touch Hambleby or the geni