ra sat motionless, her small
insurgent being stilled to the imperceptible rhythm of her breath. Over
her face there passed strange lights, strange tremors, a strange
softening of the small indomitable mouth. It was more than ever the face
of a child, of a flower, of all things innocent and open. But her eyes
were the eyes of a soul whom vision makes suddenly mature. They stared
at Tanqueray without seeing him, held by the divine thing they saw.

She still sat so, while Brodrick and Nicholson, like men released, came
forward and congratulated the novelist as on some achievement of his
own. They did it briefly, restrained by the silence that his voice had
sunk into. Everybody's nerves were tense, troubled by the vibrating
passage of the supersensual. The discussion that followed was spasmodic
and curt.

Nicky charged into the silence with a voice of violent affirmation. "He
_is_ great," said poor Nicky.

"Too great," said Brodrick, "for the twentieth century."

Nina reminded him that the twentieth century had only just begun, and
Jane remarked that it hadn't done badly since it had begun with him.

Laura said nothing; but, as they parted outside in the square, she
turned eastwards with Nina.

"Does he really mind seeing people?" she said.

"It depends," said Nina. "He's seen George."

"Would he mind your bringing him to see me some day? I want to know
him."

Nina's face drew back as if Laura had struck her. Its haggard, smitten
look spoke as if Nina had spoken. "What do you want to know him for?" it
said.

"He hasn't got to be seen," said Nina herself savagely. She was
overwrought. "He's got to be heard. You've heard him."

"It's because I've heard him that I want to see him."

Nina paused in her ferocious stride and glanced at the little thing. The
small face of her friend had sunk from its ecstasy to its sullen
suffering, its despondency, its doubt.

Nina was stung by compassion.

"Do you want to see him very much?" she said.

"I wouldn't ask you if I didn't."

"All right. You shall. I'll make him come."

XXIII

Within a fortnight of that reading Prothero received a letter from
George Tanqueray. It briefly told him that the lady whom he had refused
to meet had prevailed upon her publishers to bring out his poems in the
autumn, at their own and not Prothero's expense.

How the miracle had been worked he couldn't conceive, and Tanqueray was
careful to leave him unenlightened. It had been s