“It’s not that. You ought to know better, Jasper. It’s only that he’s exigeant—never knows how the time goes, and” (she lowered her voice still more), “and Madala spoilt him. She could sit by the hour looking like a Madonna, and getting all her own head-work done, and never stirring a hair. Of course he doesn’t like the shilling an hour type after her.” “I know, I know! The explanation is quite unnecessary.” He smiled and waved his hand. “Then why——?” She was still flushed and annoyed. “One gets at other people’s views. I merely wondered how the—er—partnership appeared to your—er—intelligence. Now I know.” “She did spoil him.” Anita disregarded them. “The time she wasted on him! In he came, you know, that day, and she went to meet him with the cowslips still in her hand, and shielding her eyes from the sun. That room of hers got all the morning sun.” “What did she wear—the blue dress?” The Baxter girl was like a child being told a story. “I forget. Anyway he stood looking her up and down till she reddened and began to laugh at him. And then he said—‘And cowslips too! What luck! Come along! Come _along_!’ ‘Oh, my good man!’ I said, ‘she’s in the middle of her writing!’ But it was useless to expostulate. He wanted her and so she went. I heard him as he dragged her off. ‘Madala, I’ve got such a notion!’ No, it was the great fault of her character, I consider, that she could never deny anyone, not even for her work’s sake. Still, I suppose one had to forgive it in that case, for that was the beginning, you know, of _The Spring Song_. She is painted just as she stood there that morning, literally gilded over with sunshine, and the flowers in her hands.” “It’s the best thing he’s ever done, isn’t it?” said the Baxter girl. “Best thing? It’s a master-piece. It’s Madala Grey.” “When is he going to show it?” asked Mr. Flood. Anita shrugged. “Heaven knows! He insists that it isn’t finished. I believe he sits and prays over it. He was annoyed that Madala took me there one day. You know how touchy he is.” “He won’t show it now,” said the blonde lady. “Why not? Why not?” Anita hovered, on the pounce, like a cat over a bowl of goldfish, and like a fish the blonde lady glided out of reach. “And _she_ asks!” she appealed to the others. Anita frowned. “You’re cryptic.” “Well, wasn’t there a certain—rivalry? You should have a fellow-feeling.” “Oh—” she resented quickly, “Kent always wanted to keep her to himself, if you mean that.” The blonde lady smiled. “And now he keeps her to himself. I mean just that. I go by your account, of course. _I_ haven’t glimpsed _The Spring Song_.” “So that started it.” The Baxter girl mused aloud. “I think that’s romantic now—to make a famous picture and to pick up one’s husband, all in twenty-four hours.” “‘Pick up!’” “You know what I mean—fall in love.” “‘Fall in love!’” “Nita, don’t trample.” Miss Howe threw the Baxter girl a cigarette.