divinely propitiated and appeased.

She knew that in a measure she owed this supreme reconciliation to
George Tanqueray. Her genius was virile. He could not give it anything,
nor could it have taken anything he gave. He was passive to her vision
and humble, on his knees, as he always had been, before a kindred
immortality. What he did for her was to see her idea as she saw it, but
so that through his eyes she saw steadily and continuously its power and
perfection. She was aware that in the last five years she had grown
dependent on him for that. For five years he had lifted her out of the
abyss when she had found herself falling. Through all the surgings and
tossings that had beset her he had kept her from sinking into the trough
of the wave. Never once had he let go his hold till he had seen her
riding gaily on the luminous crest.

His presence filled her with a deep and strong excitement. For two
years, in their long separations, she had found that her craving for it
was at times unbearable. She knew that when her flame died down and she
was in terror of extinction, she had only to send for him to have her
fear taken from her. She had only to pick up a book of his, to read a
sentence of his, and she would feel herself afire again. Everything
about him, his voice, his look, the touch of his hand, had this
penetrating, life-giving quality.

Three weeks passed and Tanqueray was still staying in his inn at
Chagford. In the mornings they worked, he on his book and she on hers.
She saw him every afternoon or evening. Sometimes they took long walks
together over the moors. Sometimes they wandered in the deep lanes.
Sometimes, in rainy weather, they sat indoors, talking. In the last five
years Tanqueray (who never used to show his work) had brought all his
manuscripts for her to read. He brought them now. Sometimes she read to
him what she had written. Sometimes he read to her. Sometimes he left
his manuscript with her and took hers away with him. They discussed
every doubtful point together, they advised each other and consulted.
Sometimes they talked of other things. She was aware that the flame he
kindled leaned to him, drawn by his flame. She kept it high. She wanted
him to see how divine it was, and how between him and her there could be
no question of passion that was not incorruptible, a fiery intellectual
thing.

But every day Tanqueray walked up from the village to the farm. She
looked on his coming as the settl