“But don’t you see,” she cried, “that that letter, just that letter——”
He said—
“That’s why. How dare you read that letter here—aloud—tonight? It—it’s ghoulish.”
“Kent!” There was outrage in her voice.
“But, Kent——” Miss Howe intervened—“we knew her—we care—it’s in all reverence——”
And Mr. Flood—
“My dear man, she’s not a private character. The lives that will be written! Anita’s may be the classic, but it won’t be the only one. Letters are bound to be printed—every scrap she ever wrote. Nobody can stop it. It’s only a question of time. The public has its rights.”
“To what?” He turned savagely. “You’ve had her books. She’s given enough. Will you leave her nothing private, nothing sacred?”
“But, Kent, can’t you see——” Anita had an air of pushing Miss Howe and Mr. Flood from her road—“aren’t you artist enough to see——? A writer, a woman like Madala, she has no private life. She lives to write. She lives what she writes. She is what she writes. She gives her soul to the world. She leaves her riddle to be read. Don’t you see? to be read. That’s what I’m doing. That’s what I’m going to do—read her—for the rest of you, for the public. Because—because they care, because we all care. It’s done in all honour. It’s a tribute. And for what I am going to do, such a letter is the key.”
She spoke softly, sweetly, persuasively. She wooed him to agree with her. She was extraordinarily eager for his approval. And the approval of the others she did win. They were all murmuring agreement.