He was a failure, he repeated. Well, look then,feel then. Flashing her needles, glancing roundabout her, out of the window, into the room, atJames himself, she assured him, beyond a shadow ofa doubt, by her laugh, her poise, her competence (asa nurse carrying a light across a dark room assures afractious child), that it was real; the house was full;the garden blowing. If he put implicit faith in her,nothing should hurt him; however deep he buriedhimself or climbed high, not for a second should hefind himself without her. So boasting of her capacityto surround and protect, there was scarcely a shellof herself left for her to know herself by; all was solavished and spent; and James, as he stood stiffbetween her knees, felt her rise in a rosy-floweredfruit tree laid with leaves and dancing boughs intowhich the beak of brass, the arid scimitar of hisfather, the egotistical man, plunged and smote, de-manding sympathy.

Filled with her words, like a child who drops offsatisfied, he said, at last, looking at her with humblegratitude, restored, renewed, that he would take aturn; he would watch the children playing cricket.He went.