“But then Carey’s a doctor. So convenient!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Flood. “I always said he caught her on the rebound.”
“And then, to mix metaphors, the fat was in the fire. Then, Kent woke up
to her. Isn’t it obvious? He was fond of Madala Grey, but it was Mrs.
Carey that he fell in love with. Just like a man!”
“Oh, I hate you,” said Mr. Flood. “You destroy my illusions. I’m like
Anita. I demand the tragic Madala.”
“You can have her, I should think,” said the Baxter girl thoughtfully.
“Oh, of course your theory does seem probable as far as it goes, Miss
Howe, but——”
“But what?” said Miss Howe.
“Well, she hardly ever came to town afterwards, did she?”
“Ah, Madala was always wise,” said the blonde lady.
Mr. Flood rubbed his hands.
“Thank you, Beryl. We’re in sympathy. And it’s quite a satisfying,
tragical picture, isn’t it? The two artists—he with his lay figure and
she with her Hodge, and the long year between them. Can’t you see them,
cheated, desirous, stretching out to each other their impotent hands?
One could make something out of that.”
“You could, Mr. Flood,” said the Baxter girl fervently.
“Out of what?” Anita was always noiseless. I jumped to hear her voice so
close behind me.
Miss Howe looked up at her quizzingly.
“Madala and——Where _is_ Kent?”
“With Mother still. He’s managed her extraordinarily. She’s getting
sleepy, thank goodness! He’ll be down in a minute.” Then, with a change
of tone—“Madala and Kent? I think not, Lila dear.”
“But you said yourself——” the Baxter girl interposed.
“Oh no! I flung it out—a suggestion—a possibility. I haven’t committed
myself—yet. I wish I could be sure of Kent. He’s upset my conception of
him tonight. I should have said—selfish. Especially over Madala. But all
men are selfish. Yet, tonight——” she hesitated, playing with the papers
that lay half in, half out of the open desk. “But who was it, if it
wasn’t Kent? Because there _was_ someone, you know——” And then, as if
Miss Howe’s smile annoyed her beyond prudence—“Do you think I’m
inventing? Do you think I’ve talked for amusement’s sake? I tell you,
she was on the verge of an elopement. _Without_ benefit of clergy!”
“Anita!” Miss Howe half rose from her chair.
“We’re getting it at last.” Mr. Flood addressed the room. “I knew she
had something up her sleeve.”
“I don’t believe—I won’t believe it,” said Miss Howe.
Then Anita smiled.
“Didn’t I say she was careless about her drafts? I’ve a fragment
here—no, I’ve left it in my writing-table——” and she rose as she
spoke—“no name, but it’s proof enough. It’s an answer to some man’s
letter.”
“But does she definitely consent——?” began the Baxter girl.
“Not in so many words. But it’s obvious there was some cause or
impediment, and he, whoever he is, has evidently had qualms of
conscience about letting her call the world well lost for his sweet
sake.”
“That would rule out Kent, of course,” said Miss Howe thoughtfully.
“There was no reason why Kent shouldn’t marry.”
“We know of none,” said Anita in her suggestive voice. “Isn’t that as
much as one can say of any man?”
“Ah!” said the Baxter girl, illuminated. I don’t know why—her round
eyes, I suppose, and her pursed mouth—but she reminded me of the woodcut
of Minerva’s owl in _Larousse_.
“So you see my prime difficulty. I’ve passed under review every man of
her acquaintance, till I narrowed down the possible——”
“Affinities,” said the blonde lady.
“—to Kent Rehan, John Carey, and this probable but unknown third. There
I hang fire. Until I make up my mind on which of the three her love
story hinges, I can’t do more than trifle with the _Life_. And how shall
I make up my mind?”
“Three?” said Mr. Flood. “Two. You can eliminate the husband. He’s fifth
act, not third.”
“Yes, of course. But I never jump a step. Which leaves me the unknown—or
Kent.”