can't be helped. It isn't anybody's fault.
It's--it's inevitable."

"Yes. For the present it's--inevitable."

They both paused on that word.

"I suppose," he said, "you're really afraid that they'll get too fond of
you?"

"Yes."

"They're very fond of their mother, aren't they?"

"Yes--if she were always here."

"Of course, it does make your position a little difficult. Still, we
don't want them to fret for her--we don't want them not to be fond of
you. Besides, if you went, what on earth would they do without you?"

"They must learn to do without me. They would have some one else."

"Yes, and they'll be fond of _her_."

"Not in the same way. I think perhaps I've given myself too much to
them. There's something unusual, something tragic in the way they cling
to me. I know it's bad for them. I try to check it, and I can't. And
I've no right to let it go on. Nobody has a right except their mother."

"Well, it's awfully nice of you to feel like that about it. But as you
say, I don't see how it's to be helped. I think you're taking an
exaggerated view--conscientiously exaggerated. They're too young, you
know, to be very tragic."

She smiled as through tears.

"I don't think you'll save tragedy by going. Besides, what should I do?"

"You?"

"Yes. You don't appear to have thought of me."

"Don't I?" She smiled again, as if at some secret, none too happy, of
her own.

"If I had not thought of you I should never have come here a second
time. If I had not thought of you I should not have thought of going."

"Did you think I wanted you to go?"

"I--was not quite sure."

He laughed. "Are you sure now?"

She looked at him again.

"I _do_ help you by staying?"

He was overwhelmed by his indebtedness.

"Most certainly you do. I must have been very ungracious if you haven't
realized how indispensable you are."

"If you're sure of that--I'll stay."

"Good."

He held out his hand and detained hers for a moment. "Are you sure you
don't want to leave us? I'm not asking too much of you?"

She withdrew her hand.

"You have never asked too much."

Thus Gertrude uncovered the knees of the gods.

LXII

Four days in every week Jane had a letter from Gertrude and once a week
a letter from Brodrick. She was thus continually assured that all was
well and that Brodrick was very comfortable with Gertrude.

She was justified in staying on, since her genius had come back to her,
divinely placable,