, in their curious
conversation, had given herself up sublimely for Freda to look at
and see for herself that there was nothing in her to be afraid of?

It was possible that Julia had seen things in _her_. Freda had a
little thrill of discomfort at that thought; but she rallied from it
bravely. What if Julia did see? She was not aware of anything that
she was anxious to conceal from her. Least of all had she desired to
hide her part in Wilton Caldecott. It was, if you came to think of
it, the link between her and Julia, the ground of their
acquaintance. She could not suspect Julia of any vulgar desire to
take _that_ away from her.

If there had been any lapse from high refinement it had been in her
own little cry of "Ah, you don't know him," into which poor Freda
now felt that she had poured the very soul of passionate possession.
But Julia had been perfect. She had in effect said: "I see--and you
won't mind my seeing--that your friendship for Wilton Caldecott is
your dearest and purest possession, as it's mine. I'm not ashamed to
own it. And I'll show you how to keep it. Take care of the
gift--the gift. It'll see you both through." Julia had been fine.
What else _could_ she be? Of course she had seen; and she had
sacrificed her reticence beautifully, because it was the only way.
It was, said Freda to herself, what _she_ would have done if she had
been in Julia's place, and had seen.

Having reconstructed Julia, she unlocked the drawer that held the
hidden treasure, the thing that he had said was so perfect, the last
consummate manifestation of the gift. They had found between them
the right word for it. It was only a gift, a thing that he had given
her, that if he chose he could at any moment take away. What had
come from her came only through him. She owned, with a sort of
exultation, that there was nothing in the least creative in her. She
had not one virile quality; only this receptivity of hers,
infinitely plastic, infinitely tender. What lay in the lamplight
under her caressing hand had been born of their friendship. It was
their spiritual child.

She bowed her head and kissed it.

She said to herself: "It is not me, but his part in me that he
loves. If I am true to it he will be true to me."

As she raised her head her eyes were wet with tears. She looked
round the room. Everything in it (but the thing that lay there under
her hand) seemed suddenly to have lost its interest and its charm.
Something had g