“Well, practically she did that, didn’t she, when she married Carey? She buried herself in the country. She didn’t write a line. You said yourself that she put her career behind her. Why shouldn’t it be written to Carey?”
“Oh, don’t be absurd. It’s Carey that makes it impossible. How could Carey have written a letter needing such an answer? Little he cared. What was her genius to him? Isn’t it obvious, isn’t it plain as print, that Carey happened, Carey and all he stands for, after the writing of this letter, because of some hitch? Why wasn’t the letter sent? What happened? What folly? What misunderstanding? What disillusionment? What realization of danger?—to send her, with that letter half written, into Carey’s arms? Carey, that stick, that ordinary man! And on the top of it The Resting-place comes out, the cri du cœur—or, if you like, Lila, the satire—(for I’m beginning to believe you’re right) the satire of The Resting-place. I tell you, I smell tragedy.”
“It’s supposition, it’s mere supposition,” said Miss Howe impatiently.
“Isn’t all detective work supposition to begin with? Wait till I’ve made my book. Wait till I’ve sifted my evidence, till I’ve ranged it, stick and brick, step by step, up, up, up, to the letter.”
Suddenly from where he sat, half way between me and them, Kent spoke—
“Anita, you can’t publish that letter.”
Her face, all their faces, turned towards us. She stared.
“Why not?” And then—“Why do you sit out there? Come here. Come into the light.”
He did not stir.
She frowned, puckering her eyes.