“Madala. Madala herself. She used to make a joke of it.” “She never showed when she was hurt,” said the Baxter girl emotionally. “Yes, but it almost seemed as if she were not hurt, as if her—her sensitiveness, her better feelings, had been blunted. I’ve known her use it as a _weapon_ almost,” said Anita conscientiously recollecting. “He—that annoyed me so—he was very peremptory with her sometimes, most rude in his manner. Of course, you know, she _was_ dreamy. Not that that excused him for a moment. I remember a regular scene——” “Before you?” Miss Howe cast instant doubt upon it. “My room was next to theirs. I could hear them through the wall. I can assure you that he stormed at her in a most ungentlemanly way——” “What about?” said the Baxter girl breathlessly. “Something about his razors. A parcel had come by the early post, and just because she had cut the string—but I couldn’t follow it all. He was a man who was easily irritated by trifles. Well, as I say, after he had raged at her for five minutes or more, till I could have gone in and spoken to him myself, all that that patient woman said, was—‘Darling, have you begun _Eden Walls_ yet?’ I tell you the man never said another word.” “He didn’t prevent her writing, did he?” said Miss Howe. “There’s no doubt that he discouraged her. He was selfish. It was his wretched doctoring all day long—and you know how sensitive Madala was. I did persuade her to do some work while I was staying with them, but I soon saw that it was labour thrown away. Her heart wasn’t in it. When it wasn’t Carey it was the baby clothes. For the sake of her reputation,” her voice hardened, “it’s as well that she has died when she has.” “Anita!” “I mean it.” She was quick and fierce. “Do you think it was a little thing for me to see that pearl of great price—oh, not Madala Grey! I grew to hate her almost, that new Madala Grey—but the gift within her, her great, blazing genius—flung away, trampled on——” Miss Howe turned her head in slow denial. “No, Anita! Not genius. Charm, if you like. Talent, as much as you please. But Madala Grey wasn’t a genius, and she knew it.” Anita flung up her head. “She will be when I’ve done with her. She will be when I’ve written the _Life_.” “Ah, the poor child!” said Great-aunt startlingly. Anita never heeded. She was wrapt away in some cold passion of her own, a passion that amazed me. I had always thought of her as what she looked, an ordered, steely woman, all brain and will; yet now of a sudden she revealed herself, a creature convulsed, writhing in flames. But they were cold flames. Cold fire, is there such a thing? Ice burns. There is phosphorus. There is the light of stars. I know what I mean if only I had the words. Star-fire—that’s it. She was like a dead star. She warmed no one, she only burned herself up.