ted to
talk to Jane, and he wanted to be alone with her to talk.

After dinner they went up to his study to look at some books he had
bought. The best of selling your own books, he said, was that you could
buy as many as you wanted of other people's. He had now got as many as
he wanted. They were more than the room would hold. All that he could
not get on to the shelves were stacked about the floor. He stood among
them smiling.

Rose did not smile. The care of Tanqueray's study was her religion.

"How am I to get round them 'eaps to dust?" said she.

"You don't get round them, and you don't dust," said Tanqueray
imperturbably.

"Then--them books'll breed a fever."

"They will. But _you_ won't catch it."

Rose lingered, and he suggested that it would be as well if she went
down-stairs and made the coffee. She needn't send it up till nine, he
said. It was now five minutes past eight.

She went obediently.

"She knows she isn't allowed into this room," said Tanqueray to Jane.

"You speak of her as if she was a dog," said she. She added that she
would have to go at half-past eight. There was a train at nine that she
positively must catch.

He had to go down and ask Rose to come back with the coffee soon. Jane
was glad that she had forced on him that act of humility.

For the moments that she remained alone with him she wandered among his
books. There were some that she would like to borrow. She talked about
them deliberately while Tanqueray maddened.

He walked with her to the station.

She turned on him as they dipped down the lane out of sight and hearing.

"George," she said, "I'll never come and see you again if you bully that
dear little wife of yours."

"I?--Bully her?"

"Yes. You bully her, you torture her, you terrify her till she doesn't
know what she's doing."

"I'm sorry, Jinny."

"Sorry? Of course you're sorry. She slaves for you from morning till
night."

"That's not my fault. I stopped her slaving and she got ill. Why, it was
you--_you_--who made me turn her on to it again."

"Of course I did. She loves slaving for you. She'd cut herself in little
pieces. She'd cook herself--deliciously--and serve herself up for your
dinner if she thought you'd fancy her."

"You're right, Jinny. I never ought to have married her."

"I didn't say you never ought to have married her. I say you ought to be
on your knees now you have married her. She's ten thousand times too
good for you."

"You're