“I believe I know that cowslip ball.” Miss Howe looked amused. “_A_ cowslip ball, anyway. She had one sent to her once when I was there. I thought it was from her slum children.” “Yes, he sent it on.” My cousin went on quickly with her own story. “How he knew the address puzzled me. Her publishers wouldn’t have given it and I know she didn’t.” “Telephone book,” said the Baxter girl, as one experienced. “Ah, possibly. I went round to her that morning, and—yes, you were there, Lila,” she conceded, “for I remember I wondered how Madala could compose herself to work with anyone else in the room. I always left her to herself when she stayed with me.” “She didn’t mind me,” said Miss Howe firmly. “She always said that she didn’t, I know. And of course I know that it is possible to withdraw oneself as it were, but I confess I disapproved. Her room was a regular clearing-house in those days. Oh, not you particularly, Lila, but——” “You came in yourself that morning, didn’t you?” said Miss Howe very softly and sweetly. “I was telling you so. And what did I find? Her desk littered over with string and paper and moss and damp cardboard, and that story Hooper published (it had been freshly typed only the day before) watering into purple under my eyes, while she sat and gloated over those wretched flowers. ‘Madala!’ I said, ‘your manuscript! Really, Madala!’” “And Madala—” Miss Howe began to laugh—“Oh, I remember now.” “What did Madala say?” demanded the Baxter girl. “It wasn’t like her.” Anita fidgeted. “She knew how I disliked the modern manner.” “But she said,” Miss Howe caught it up— “I don’t know what possessed her,” said my cousin with a rush. “She actually stamped her foot at me. Yes, she did, and then held out her wretched posy and said—‘Oh, damn the manuscript, Nita! Smell!’” “What did Nita do?” enquired the blonde lady softly of Miss Howe. “Sniffed,” Mr. Flood struck in. “Obviously! Satisfied Madala and relieved her own feelings. That is called tact.” “And just then, you know,” Miss Howe glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice, “_he_ came in.” “Kent?” The lady with Mr. Flood did not lower her voice. I believe she wanted him to hear. She was like a curious child poking at a hurt beastie. Her smile was infantine as she looked across at him. But the man at the window never stirred. “Sh!” Miss Howe frowned at her. And then, still whispering—“Yes, don’t you remember? he had his studio in the same block all that year. He always came across to Madala when he wanted a sardine tin opened, or change for his gas, or someone to sit to him.” “Someone was saying that he couldn’t keep a model.” Mr. Flood glanced at them in turn. Miss Howe flushed surprisingly.