Kent Rehan rose to his feet. It was like a rock breaking through that froth of women. He stood a moment, nervously, brushing the black from his hands and wincing as he did so. Then he looked up. His eyes met her. He flushed.
“Kent! Kent!” She flung off Miss Howe.
The intensity of reproach in her voice startled me, and I think it startled him. I found myself thinking—‘All this anger for what? for a burnt paper? It’s impossible! But then—then what’s the matter with her?’
He said awkwardly—
“I’m sorry, Anita.”
“You!” she cried, panting—“You, to interfere! D’you know what you’ve done, what you’ve tried to do? Will you take everything, you and he? Haven’t I my work too? Oh, what you’ve had from her, what you’ve had from her! And now you cheat me!”
He was bewildered. He said again—
“I’m sorry, Anita.”
She came close to him. Her little hands were clenched. There was a wail in her voice—
“You! Aren’t you friends with me? Didn’t I share her with you? Isn’t she my work too? What would you say if I came to your house and saw your work, your life work that she’d made possible, your pictures that are her, all her—and slashed them with a knife? What would you do if I’d done that, if I’d cut it to ribbons, your Spring Song?”