“Yes, he sent it on.” My cousin went on quickly with her own story. “How he knew the address puzzled me. Her publishers wouldn’t have given it and I know she didn’t.”
“Telephone book,” said the Baxter girl, as one experienced.
“Ah, possibly. I went round to her that morning, and—yes, you were there, Lila,” she conceded, “for I remember I wondered how Madala could compose herself to work with anyone else in the room. I always left her to herself when she stayed with me.”
“She didn’t mind me,” said Miss Howe firmly.
“She always said that she didn’t, I know. And of course I know that it is possible to withdraw oneself as it were, but I confess I disapproved. Her room was a regular clearing-house in those days. Oh, not you particularly, Lila, but——”
“You came in yourself that morning, didn’t you?” said Miss Howe very softly and sweetly.
“I was telling you so. And what did I find? Her desk littered over with string and paper and moss and damp cardboard, and that story Hooper published (it had been freshly typed only the day before) watering into purple under my eyes, while she sat and gloated over those wretched flowers. ‘Madala!’ I said, ‘your manuscript! Really, Madala!’”
“And Madala—” Miss Howe began to laugh—“Oh, I remember now.”
“What did Madala say?” demanded the Baxter girl.
“It wasn’t like her.” Anita fidgeted. “She knew how I disliked the modern manner.”