His face darkened as he considered her question. He knew all about poor Rose's trouble, how her tender flesh and blood had been made to pay for Tanqueray's outrageous genius. He and Henry had discussed it. Henry had his own theory of it. He offered it as one more instance of the physiological disabilities of genius. It was an extreme and curious instance, if you liked, Tanqueray himself being curious and extreme. But it had not occurred to Brodrick that Henry's theory of Tanqueray might be applied to Jane.
"What on earth do you know about George Tanqueray?" he said. "How could you know a thing like that?"
"I know because I'm like him."
"No, Jinny, it's not the same thing. You're a woman."
She smiled, remembering sadly how that was what George in a brutal moment had said she was not to be. It showed after all how well he knew her.
"I'm more like George Tanqueray," she said, "than I'm like Gertrude Collett."
He frowned, wondering what Gertrude Collett had to do with it.
"We're all the same," she said. "It takes us that way. You see, it tires us out."
He sighed, but his face lightened.
"If nothing's left of a big strong man like George Tanqueray, how much do you suppose is left of me? It's perfectly simple—simpler than you thought. But it has to be."