“For that matter, from the point of view of literature,” Anita’s voice grated, “she died a year ago.”
“It’s not possible! That’s what I say—it’s not possible!” It was strange how even the Baxter girl ignored Anita. “Dead! I can’t grasp it. It’s—it’s too awful. She was so vivid.”
“Awful?” Mr. Flood was biting his fingers. “Awful? Nothing of the kind. You know that Holbein cut—no, it’s earlier stuff—‘Death and the Lady,’ crude, preposterous. And that’s what it is. Old Bones and Madala Grey? That’s not tragedy, that’s farce! Farce, dear people, farce!” Then his high tripping voice broke suddenly. “Dead? Why, she wasn’t thirty!”
“She was twenty-six last June,” said Anita finally. “Midsummer Day. I know.”
“June!” He caught it up. “Just so—June! Isn’t that characteristic? Isn’t that Madala all over? Of course she was born in June. She would be. She was June. June——
“Her lips and her roses yet maiden
A summer of storm in her eyes——”
Miss Howe winced.
“For God’s sake don’t Swinburnize, Jasper! She’s not your meat. Oh, I want to cry—I want to cry! Dead—at twenty-six——”
“In child-bed,” finished Anita bitterly, and her voice made it an unclean and shameful end.