She did not answer. She was looking steadily at the fire burning in the grate. At last she spoke.
"Mamma," she said, "will never give him up."
I suggested that I had better speak to Mrs. Wrackham.
"No," she said. "Don't. She won't understand." She rose. "I am not going to leave it to Mamma."
She went to the fire and stirred it to a furious flame.
"Grevill will be here," she said, "in half an hour."
She walked across the room—I can see her going now—holding her beautiful head high. She locked the door (I was locked in with Antigone). She went to a writing-table where the "Memoirs" lay spread out in parts; she took them and gathered them into a pile. I was standing by the hearth and she came toward me; I can see her; she was splendid, carrying them in her arms sacrificially. And she laid them on the fire.
It took us half an hour to burn them. We did it in a sort of sacred silence.
When it was all over and I saw her stand there, staring at a bit of Wrackham's handwriting that had resisted to the last the purifying flame, I tried to comfort her.
"Angelette," I said, "don't be unhappy. That was the kindest thing you could do—and the best thing, believe me—to your father's memory."