I said—

“Who is Madala Grey?”

The Baxter girl had sunk into the cushions until she was prone. I had

been wondering with the bit of mind that wasn’t listening what the

people at home would have said to her, with her cobweb stockings (it was

November) and her coloured combs and her sprawl. It was a relief to see

her sit up suddenly.

“‘Who’s Madala Grey!’” Her mouth stayed open after she’d finished the

sentence.

“Yes,” I said. “Who is she?”

“You mean to say you’ve never heard of Madala Grey? You’ve never read

_Eden Walls_? Is there anyone in England who hasn’t read _Eden Walls_?”

“Heaps,” I said. She annoyed me. She—they—they all thought me a fool at

Anita’s.

The Baxter girl sighed luxuriously.

“My word, I envy you! I wish I was reading _Eden Walls_ for the first

time—or _Ploughed Fields_. I don’t care so much about _The

Resting-place_.” She laughed. “At least—one’s not supposed to care about

_The Resting-place_, you know. It’s as much as one’s life’s worth—one’s

literary life.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Sentimental. Anita says so. She says she doesn’t know what happened to

her over _The Resting-place_.”

“I like the title,” I said.

“Yes, so do I. And I love the opening where——Oh, but you haven’t read

it. And you’re Anita’s cousin! What a comedy! Just like Anita, though,

not to speak of her.”

“Why? Doesn’t Anita like her?”

The Baxter girl was flat on the cushions again. She looked at me with

those furtive eyes that always so strangely qualified her garrulity.

“Are you shrewd? Or was that chance?”

“What?”

“‘Doesn’t Anita like her?’”

“Doesn’t she then?”

“Ah, now you’re asking! Officially, very much. Too much, _I_ should say.

And too much is just the same as the other thing, I think. Would you

like Anita for your bosom friend?”