t her. But she did not see his look.

"You think," said she, "that it's odd of her--the last thing anybody
could want?"

His face changed suddenly as the blood surged in it. He sat down, and
stretched his arms across the table that was the barrier between them.
His head leaned towards her with its salient thrust, its poise of
impetus and forward flight.

"If you knew," he said, "the things you say----"

His hands made a sudden movement, as if they would have taken hers that
lay nerveless and helpless, almost within their grasp.

She drew her hands back.

"It's nearly ten o'clock," she said.

"Do you want me to go?"

She smiled. "No. Only--they'll say, if I sit up, that that's what tires
me."

"And does it? Do _I_ tire you?"

"You never tire me."

"At any rate I don't destroy you; I don't prey on you."

"We all prey on each other. _I_ prey on you."

"You? Oh--Jinny!"

Again there was a movement of his hands, checked, this time, by his own
will.

"Five minutes past ten, George. They'll come and carry me out if I don't
go."

"Who will?"

"All of them, probably. They're all in there."

"It's preposterous. They don't care what they do to you themselves; they
bore you brutally; they tire you till you're sick; they hand you on to
each other, to be worried and torn to pieces; and they drag you from
anybody who does you good. They don't let you have five minutes'
pleasure, Jinny, or five minutes' peace. Good Lord, what a family!"

"Anyhow, it's _my_ family."

"It isn't. You haven't got a family; you never had and you never will
have. They don't belong to you, and you don't belong to any of them, and
you know it----"

She rose. "All the same, I'm going to them," she said. "And that reminds
me, how's Rose?"

"Perfectly well, I believe."

"It's ages since I saw Rose. Tell her--tell her that I'm coming to see
her."

"When?" he said.

"Some day next week."

"Sunday?"

He knew, and she knew that he knew, that Sunday was Brodrick's day.

"No, Monday. Monday, about four."

XLVIII

Tanqueray was realizing more and more that he was married, and that his
marriage had been made in that heaven where the spirit of creative
comedy abides. In spite of the superb sincerity of his indifference, he
found it increasingly difficult to ignore his wife. It had, in fact,
become impossible now that people no longer ignored _him_. Rose, as the
wife of an obscurity, could very easily be kept obscure. But