high priest of the
unspeakable ritual. He would be expected presently to say something, to
perform the supreme and final act of consecration.

And for the life of him he could not think of anything to say. The
things he thought could not be said while he sat there, at Brodrick's
table. Afterwards, perhaps, when he and she were alone, if she insisted.

But she would not insist. Far from it. She would not expect him to say
anything. What touched him was her utter absence of any expectation, the
candour with which she received his silence as her doom.

The ceremony was growing more and more awful. Champagne had been
brought. They were going--he might have foreseen it--they were going to
drink to the long life of the Book.

John Brodrick rose first, then Henry, then Levine. They raised their
glasses. Jane's terrified eyes met theirs.

"To the Book!" they said. "To the Book!" Tanqueray found himself gazing
in agony at his glass where the bubbles danced and glittered, calling
him to the toast. For the life of him he could not rise.

Brodrick was drinking now, his eyes fixed upon his wife. And Tanqueray,
for the life of him, could not help looking at Jane, to see how she
would take it.

She took it well. She faced the torture smiling, with a courage that was
proof, if he had wanted proof, of her loyalty to Brodrick. Her smile
trembled as it met Brodrick's eyes across the table, and the tenderness
of it went to Tanqueray's heart. She held out her glass; and as she
raised it she turned and looked full in Tanqueray's face, and smiled
again, steadily.

"To the Book!" she said. "To Nina Lempriere's book! You can drink now,
George."

He met her look.

"Here's to you. You immortal Jinny."

Lucid and comprehending, over the tilted glass his eyes approved her,
adored her. She flushed under the unveiled, deliberate gaze.

"Didn't I get you out of that nicely?" she said, an hour later, outside
in the darkening garden, as she paced the terrace with him alone. The
others, at Brodrick's suggestion, had left them to their communion.
Brodrick's idea evidently was that the novelist would break silence only
under cover of the night.

"Yes," he said. "It was like your sweetness."

"You can't say," she continued, "that I'm not appreciated in my family."

Through the dark, as her face flashed towards him, he saw the little
devil that sat laughing in her eyes.

"You needn't be afraid to talk about it," she said. "And you needn't