“Thank you, Beryl. We’re in sympathy. And it’s quite a satisfying, tragical picture, isn’t it? The two artists—he with his lay figure and she with her Hodge, and the long year between them. Can’t you see them, cheated, desirous, stretching out to each other their impotent hands? One could make something out of that.”
“You could, Mr. Flood,” said the Baxter girl fervently.
“Out of what?” Anita was always noiseless. I jumped to hear her voice so close behind me.
Miss Howe looked up at her quizzingly.
“Madala and——Where is Kent?”
“With Mother still. He’s managed her extraordinarily. She’s getting sleepy, thank goodness! He’ll be down in a minute.” Then, with a change of tone—“Madala and Kent? I think not, Lila dear.”
“But you said yourself——” the Baxter girl interposed.
“Oh no! I flung it out—a suggestion—a possibility. I haven’t committed myself—yet. I wish I could be sure of Kent. He’s upset my conception of him tonight. I should have said—selfish. Especially over Madala. But all men are selfish. Yet, tonight——” she hesitated, playing with the papers that lay half in, half out of the open desk. “But who was it, if it wasn’t Kent? Because there was someone, you know——” And then, as if Miss Howe’s smile annoyed her beyond prudence—“Do you think I’m inventing? Do you think I’ve talked for amusement’s sake? I tell you, she was on the verge of an elopement. Without benefit of clergy!”
“Anita!” Miss Howe half rose from her chair.
“We’re getting it at last.” Mr. Flood addressed the room. “I knew she had something up her sleeve.”