hard and terrible and at the same
time beautiful and supreme.

And downstairs in the hall, she found Eliot.

He told her that he had come down to see Anne and that he had done his
best to keep her from going away and that it was all no good.

"We can't stop her. She's got an unbreakable will."

"Unbreakable," she said. "And yet she's broken."

"I know," he said.

In her nervous exaltation she felt that Eliot had been sent, that Eliot
knew. Eliot was wise. He would help her.

"Eliot----" she said. "Will you see me in the library after dinner? I
want to ask you something."

"If it's about Anne, I don't know that there's anything I can say."

"It's about Jerrold," she said.

After dinner he came to her in the library.

"Where's Jerrold?"

"In the drawing-room with Colin. He won't come in."

"Eliot, there's something awfully wrong with him. He can't sleep. He
can't eat. He's sick if he tries."

"He looks pretty ghastly."

"Do you know what's the matter with him?"

"How can I know? He doesn't tell me anything."

"It's ever since he heard that Anne's going." "He's worried about her.
So am I. So are you."

"He isn't worrying. He's fretting.... Eliot--do you think he cares for
her?"

Eliot didn't answer her. He looked at her gravely, searchingly, as if he
were measuring her strength before he answered.

"Don't be afraid to tell me. I'm not a coward."

"I haven't anything to tell you. It isn't altogether this affair of
Anne's. Jerrold hasn't been fit for a long time."

"It's been going on for a long time."

"What makes you think so?"

"Oh," said Maisie, "everything."

"Then why don't you ask him?"

"But--if it is so--would he tell me?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he wants to tell you, only he's afraid. Anyhow,
if it isn't so he'll tell you and you'll be happy."

"Somehow I don't think I'm going to be happy."

"Then," he said, "you're going to be brave."

She thought: He knows. He's known all the time, only he won't give them
away.

"Yes," she said, "I'll ask him."

"Maisie--if it is so what will you do?"

"Do? There's only one thing I _can_ do."

She turned to him, and her milk-white face was grey-white, ashen; the
skin had a slack, pitted look, suddenly old. The soft flesh trembled.
But her mouth and eyes were still. In this moment of her agony no base
emotion defaced their sweetness, so that she seemed to him utterly
composed. She had seen what she could do. Something hard and terrible