g up and down my spine. Do you know what you've done
to me, you unspeakably divine person? I've worn out the knees, the knees
of my trousers; I've got dust in my hair, Jinny, kissing your feet."

That letter (there was a great deal more of it) had tided her over
Tanqueray's worst absence; it had carried her on, so to speak, to
Wendover. As she thought of it her heart was filled with hatred and
jealousy of her genius.

It was odd, but she had no jealousy and no hatred for Tanqueray's wife.

She hated and was jealous of her genius, not only because it had forced
Tanqueray to care for it, but because, being the thing that had made her
different from other women, it had kept Tanqueray from caring about her.

And she had got to live alone with it.

Her solitude had become unbearable. The room was unbearable; it was so
pervaded, so dominated by her genius and by Tanqueray. Most of all by
Tanqueray. There were things in it which he had given to her, things
which she had given to him, as it were; a cup he drank out of, a tray he
used for his cigar-ash; things which would remain vivid for ever with
the illusion of his presence. She could not bear to see them about. She
suffered in all ways, secretly, as if Tanqueray were dead.

A bell rang. It was four o'clock. Somebody was calling.

As to one preoccupied with a bereavement, it seemed to her incredible
that anybody _could_ call so soon. She was then reminded that she had a
large acquaintance who would be interested in seeing how she took it.
She had got to meet all these people as if nothing had happened. She
remembered now that she had promised Caroline Bickersteth to go to tea
with her to-day. If she wanted to present an appearance of nothing
having happened, she couldn't do better than go to Caro's for tea. Caro
expected her and would draw conclusions from her absence.

So might her caller if she declared herself not at home.

It was Nicky, come, he said, to know if she were going to Miss
Bickersteth's, and if he might have the pleasure of taking her there.
That was all he cared to go for, the pleasure of taking her.

Jane had never thought of Nicky being there. He was a barrister and he
had chambers, charming chambers, in the Temple, where he gave little
tea-parties and (less frequently) looked up little cases. But on Sundays
he was always a little poet down at Wendover.

They needn't start at once, he said, almost as if he knew that Jane was
dreading it. He sat a