challenged them, how on earth did he discern Jane
Holland? His appreciation of her, Caro informed one or two eminent
critics, had considerably forestalled their own. He was the first to
see; he always was the first. He had taken up George Tanqueray when
other editors wouldn't look at him, when he was absolutely unknown. And
when Caro was reminded that there, at any rate, Jane Holland had been
notoriously behind Brodrick's back, and that the editor was, notoriously
again, in love with her, Caro made her point triumphantly, maintaining
that to be in love with Jane Holland required some subtlety, if it came
to that; and pray how, if Brodrick was devoid of it, did Jane Holland
come to be in love with _him_?

It was generous of Caro, for even as sub-editor she was no longer
Brodrick's right hand. To the right and to the left of him, at his back
and perpetually before him, all round about him she saw Jane.

The wonder was that she saw her happy. It was Jane who observed to Caro
how admirably they all of them, she, Addy Ranger, Gertrude, Brodrick,
and those two queer women, Jane Brodrick and Jane Holland, were settled
down into their right places, with everything about them incomparably
ordered and adjusted.

Jane marvelled at the concessions that had been made to her, at the
extent to which things were being done for her. Her hours were no longer
confounded and consumed in supervising servants, interviewing
tradespeople, and struggling with the demon of finance. They were all,
Jane's hours, serenely and equitably disposed. She gave her mornings to
her work, a portion of the afternoon to her son, and her evenings to her
husband. Sometimes she sat up quite late with him, working on the
magazine. Brodrick and the baby between them divided the three hours
which were hers before dinner. The social round had ceased for Jane.
Brodrick had freed her from the destroyers, from the pressure of the
dreadful, clever little people. She was hardly yet aware of the more
formidable impact of his family.

What impressed her was Brodrick's serene acceptance of her friends, his
authors. He was wonderful in his brilliant, undismayed enthusiasm, as he
followed the reckless charge, the shining onset of the talents. He
accepted even Tanqueray's murderous, amazing ironies. If Brodrick's
lifted eyebrows confessed that Tanqueray was amazing, they also
intimated that Brodrick remained perpetually unamazed.

But, as an editor, he drew the line at Ar