“I see.” Miss Howe was interested. “It’s a theory, anyhow. And then in sheer savage irony at her own weakness——”
“Not a bit. In sheer weak longing——”
“I see. If your theory is correct—I don’t know what you base it on——”
“Internal evidence,” said Anita airily.
“Then I can imagine that The Resting-place was a relief to write. Poor Madala!”
“And then,” concluded Anita triumphantly, “then appears Carey, and she’s too worn out, too exhausted with her own frustrated emotions to care what happens. The book’s in her head still, and she her own heroine. He appears to her—I admit that it’s possible that even Carey might appear to her—as a refuge, a resting-place.”
“Yes, but you don’t like Mr. Carey,” said the Baxter girl. “But if Madala did? Isn’t it possible that in Madala’s eyes——? Why shouldn’t the hero be Mr. Carey himself?”
Anita’s eyes were bright with the cold anger that she always showed at the name.
“My good girl, you know nothing about John Carey, or you’d rule that out. Have you ever seen him? I thought not. And yet you have seen him. All day. Every day. When you talk of the man in the street, whom do you mean? What utterly common-place face is in your mind? Shall I tell you what is in mine? John Carey. Ordinary! Ordinary! The apotheosis of the uninspired! Oh, I haven’t any words. Look for yourself.” She rummaged furiously in the half-opened desk and flung out a fading snapshot on a mount. “There he is! That’s the thing she married!”
“What’s he doing in your holy of holies?” Mr. Flood’s eyes seemed to bore into her desk.