“Oh, as for that—there was something about her—she had a certain way——After all, if it gave her pleasure to be demonstrative, it was easier to acquiesce. But she made a fetish of such things. I was only trying to explain to her, as I tell you, that it was quite impossible to separate creator and creatures, and that to me she was Eden Walls and Ploughed Fields, and if you believe me, she was upon me like a whirlwind, shaking me by the shoulders, and crying out—‘No, no, stop! You’re to stop! It’s me you like, not the books. I hate them. I hate all that. I shall get away from all that one day.’ And I said—‘I don’t wonder you’re ashamed of The Resting-place. I advise you to get to work at once on your new book. You’ll find that if you pull yourself together——’ And all she said was—‘Nita! Nita! Don’t! And she looked at me in such a curious way——”
“How?” somebody said.
“I don’t know—laughing—despairing. She’d no right to look at me like that. It was I who was in despair.”
“I’d like to have seen you two,” said Miss Howe.
“I didn’t know what had got into her. Of course I blame myself. I ought to have followed it out. I might have prevented things. But I was annoyed and she saw it, and she——”
Miss Howe twinkled.
“She wouldn’t let you be annoyed with her long. What did she do with you, Anita?”
“She? I don’t know what you mean. We changed the subject. And as a matter of fact I was much occupied at the time with the Anthology.” She paused. “She had excellent taste,” said Anita regretfully. “Naturally I reserved to myself the final decision, but——”
“Just so,” said Mr. Flood.
“Be quiet, Jasper.” The blonde lady’s draperies dusted his shoulder intimately.