He said—
“I have no right.”
“Oh well, then!” She shrugged her shoulders.
“But,” he held stubbornly to his purpose, “whoever has a right to it—you can’t print that letter.”
She laughed at him.
“You’ll see! You’ll see!”
“Yes,” he said, “I’ll see.”
They held each other’s eyes, angry, angry. I felt how Kent Rehan loathed her. And she—yes, she must have hated him. She was all bitterness and triumph and defiance. Yet all the time I was wanting to catch him by the arm and say—‘Be kind to her. Say something kind and she’ll give in.’ I knew it. He had only to say in that instant—‘Anita, I beg of you——’ and she would have given him the letter. I knew it. I know it. I don’t know how I knew it, but I was sure. But he was a man: of course he saw nothing. He was very angry. He looked big and fine. I wondered that she could stand outfacing him.
But she, for answer, picked up the letter, and affected to search through it.
“Had I finished? Where was I? Ah, yes—‘An immortal spirit——’”