“Jasper, dear! How trite!”
“But the spirit?” said the Baxter girl, “the spirit?”
Nobody answered. The little blue flames on the hearth capered and said ‘Chik-chik!’ Anita shivered.
“The room’s getting cold,” she said sharply. And then—“Jenny, is that door open? There’s such a draught.”
I got up and went to see. But the door was shut. When I came back they were talking again. Anita was answering the Baxter girl.
“Yes, I stayed there once. A pretty place. The sort of place she would choose. All roses. No conveniences. And what with the surgery and the socialism, the poor seemed to be always with us. Only one servant——”
“She ought to have made money,” said Miss Howe.
“Oh, the first two books were a succès d’estime, I wept over her contract. She did make a considerable amount of money on The Resting-place. But it was all put by for the child. She told me so. He, you know, a poor man’s doctor! She told me that too—flung it at me. She had an extravagant way of talking, manner more than anything, of course, but to hear her you would almost think she was proud of the life they led. She was always unpractical.”
“I’d like to have gone down there once,” said Miss Howe. “If I’d known—heigh-ho!”
“I—I wished I hadn’t gone,” said Anita slowly. “It wasn’t a success.”