“But can’t you see,” Miss Howe broke in, “how it parodies the slush and sugar school?”
Anita shook her head.
“She used another manner when she was ironical. I wish you were right. Oh, you may be—I must consider—but I’m afraid that she is in earnest. That phrase now—‘The green, green grass,’ (why double the adjective?) ‘the shining waters, the singing birds’—pitiful! And that anti-climax—‘He was her absolute good: and she thought that someone ought to see that his socks were mended properly.’ I ask you—is it art?”
“Not as serious work, of course,” said Miss Howe, “but——”
“I wish I could think so,” said Anita.
“Well, I wish I could do it,” said the Baxter girl. “What do you say, Jenny?”
But it had brought back the country to me. It had brought back home. I hadn’t anything to say to them.
“And she wouldn’t discuss it, you know. She came in after supper that night, just as I was reading the last chapter. It had only been out a day. There she sat, where you are now, Lila, smiling, with her hands in her lap and her eyes fixed on her hands, waiting for me to finish.”
“Oh—” Miss Howe gave a little gushing scream, “that reminds me—d’you know, Anita, somebody actually told me that nobody had seen The Resting-place before it was published, not even you. I was amused. I denied it, of course.”
“Why?” said Anita coldly.