Annie looked alarmed. “Oh, Alice,” she said, “do you think anybody else has remembered that sentence?”
“My dear child, I am quite sure that not a blessed woman in that club has remembered that sentence,” said Alice.
“I had entirely forgotten.”
“Of course, you had.”
“It would be very unfortunate if it were remembered, because the publishers are so anxious that my name should not be known. You see, nobody ever heard of me and my name would hurt the sales and the poor publishers have worked so hard over the advertising, it would be dreadful to have the sales fall off. You really don't think anybody does remember?”
“My dear,” said Alice with her entirely good-natured, even amused and tolerant air of cynicism, “the women of the Zenith Club remember their own papers. You need not have the slightest fear. But Annie, you wonderful little girl, I am so glad you have come to me with this. I have been waiting for you to tell me, for I was impatient to tell you how delighted I am. You blessed child, I never was more glad at anything in my whole life. I am as proud as proud can be. I feel as if I had written that book myself, and better than written it myself. I have had none of the bother of the work and my friend had it and my friend has the fame and the glory and she goes around among us with her little halo hidden out of sight of everybody, except myself.”
“Margaret knows.”
Alice stiffened a little. “That is recent,” she said, “and I have known all the time.”
“Margaret could not have remembered that sentence, I am sure,” Annie said thoughtfully. “Poor Margaret, she was so upset by what happened last night that I am afraid the news did not cheer her up as much as I thought it would.”
“Well, you dear little soul,” said Alice, “I am simply revelling in happiness and pride because of it, you may be sure of that.”