“Oh Eliot, I am so glad.  That means you’ll stamp out the disease, doesn’t it?”

“Probably.  In time.”

“I knew you’d do it.  I knew you’d do something big before you’d finished.”

“My dear, I’ve only just begun.  But there’s nothing big about it but the research, and we were all in that.  All looking for the same thing.  Happening to spot it is just heaven’s own luck.”

“But aren’t you glad it was you?”

“It doesn’t matter who it is.  But I suppose I’m glad.  It’s the sort of thing I wanted to do and it’s rather more important than most things one does.”

He said no more.  Years ago, when he had done nothing, he had talked excitedly and arrogantly about his work; now that he had done what he had set out to do he was reserved, impassive and very humble.

“Do Jerrold and Colin know?” she said.

“Not yet.  You’re the first.”

“Dear Eliot, you did know I’d be glad.”

“It’s nice of you to care.”

Of course she cared.  She was glad to think that he had that supreme satisfaction to make up for the cruelty of her refusal to care more.  Perhaps, she thought, he wouldn’t have had it if he had had her.  He would have been torn in two; he would have had to give himself twice over.  She felt that he didn’t love her more than he loved his science, and science exacted an uninterrupted and undivided service.  One life hadn’t room enough for two such loves, and he might not have done so much if she had been there, calling back his thoughts, drawing his passion to herself.

“What are you going to do next?” she said.

“Next I’m going off for a month’s holiday.  To Sicily—­Taormina.  I’ve been overworking and I’m a bit run down.  How about Colin?”

“He’s better.  Heaps better.  He soon got over that relapse he had when I was away in February.”

“You mean he got over it when you came back.”

“Well, yes, it was when I came back.  That’s just what I don’t like about him, Eliot.  He’s getting dependent on me, and it’s bad for him.  I wish he could go away somewhere for a change.  A long change.  Away from me, away from the farm, away from Wyck, somewhere where he hasn’t been before.  It might cure him, mightn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said.  “Yes.  It would be worth trying.”

He didn’t look at her.  He knew what she was going to say.  She said it.

“Eliot—­do you think you could take him with you?  Could you stand the strain?”

“If you could stand it for four years I ought to be able to stand it for a month.”

“If he gets better it won’t be a strain.  He isn’t a bit of trouble when he’s well.  He’s adorable.  Only—­perhaps—­if you’re run down you oughtn’t to.”

“I’m not so bad as all that.  The only thing is, you say he ought to get away from you, and I wanted you to come too.”

“Me?”

“You and Maisie and Jerrold.”