“Envy?” said he.
“No, not envy,” said that woman slowly. “She was too—innocent—how could one envy? She didn’t know her own strength. She said—‘Don’t hurt me,’ with a sword at her side.”
“Excalibur.” It came from Mr. Flood. “Magic.”
“No, Madala—just Madala.” Miss Howe sighed. “It’s no good, Anita, you can’t give us back Madala.”
But my cousin, looking at them, laughed in her turn.
“Madala? You fools! You’ve never had her. But you shall! Oh, wait! My books are dull, aren’t they? Yet you’ll be here, you know, every month, thick as bees, to listen to me. A chapter a month, that’s all I’ll give to you. I don’t write three novels a year. But you’ll come, you’ll come. Proof? There’s plenty of proof. See here.”
She went swiftly across to the outer room. There was a large carved desk standing on the little table by the window. She picked it up. It was too big for her. It filled her arms so that she staggered under the weight.
“Oh, Kent!” she called.
He came back to the foggy room with a visible wrench.
“Here, that’s too heavy for you. Let me.” He took it from her.