"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."
"I'm afraid," she said, "I wasn't thinking--altogether--of Papa."
I may add that her mother did _not_ understand, and that--when we at
last unlocked the door--we had a terrible scene. The dear lady has
not yet forgiven Antigone; she detests her son-in-law; and I'm
afraid she isn't very fond of me.