th limits; it desired above all things precise ideas, names, phrases,
anything that constricted and defined.

But still, with it all, she believed; and the great thing was that Milly
_should_ believe. She might have worked havoc if, with her temperament,
she had doubted.

What did suffer was the fine poise with which she, Agatha, had held
Rodney Lanyon and Harding Powell each by his own thread. Milly had
compelled her to spin a stronger thread for Harding and, as it were, to
multiply her threads, so as to hold him at all points. And because of
this, because of giving more and more time to him, she could not always
loose him from her and let him go. And she was afraid lest the pull he
had on her might weaken Rodney's thread.

Up till now, the Powells' third week at Sarratt End, she had had the
assurance that his thread still held. She heard from him that Bella was
all right, which meant that he too was all right, for there had never
been anything wrong with him _but_ Bella. And she had a further glimpse
of the way the gift worked its wonders.

Three Fridays had passed, and he had not come.

Well--she had meant that; she had tried (on that last Friday of his),
with a crystal sincerity, to hold him back so that he should not come.
And up till now, with an ease that simply amazed her, she had kept
herself at the highest pitch of her sincere and beautiful intention.

Not that it was the intention that had failed her now. It had succeeded
so beautifully, so perfectly, that he had no need to come at all. She
had given Bella back to him. She had given him back to Bella. Only, she
faced the full perfection of her work. She had brought it to so fine a
point that she would never see him again; she had gone to the root of
it; she had taken from him the desire to see her. And now it was as if
subtly, insidiously, her relation to him had become inverted. Whereas
hitherto it had been she who had been necessary to him, it seemed now
that he was far more, beyond all comparison more necessary to her. After
all, Rodney had had Bella; and she had nobody but Rodney. He was the one
solitary thing she cared for. And hitherto it had not mattered so
immensely, for all her caring, whether he came to her or not. Seeing him
had been perhaps a small mortal joy; but it had not been the tremendous
and essential thing. She had been contented, satisfied beyond all mortal
contentments and satisfactions, with the intangible, immaterial tie. Now
she