“There’s something big about you, Anita!” said Miss Howe suddenly. Mr. Flood gave the oblique flicker of eyes and mouth that was his smile. “Yes,” he said slowly, “it fits her quite well.” “What?” said Anita sharply. “The mantle, dear lady.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Ah—_Gentle dullness ever loves a joke_. What, Beryl?” “I don’t see,” the Baxter girl had harked back, “how you can call a book that has been banned conventional.” “Only the plot——” “Ah, that plot!” Nobody could snub Mr. Flood. “Think, dear lady! Village maiden—faithless lover—lights o’ London—unfortunate female—what more do you want?” “Of course.” Anita resumed the reins. “It’s as old as _The Vicar of Wakefield_.” “Oh, _that_!” The Baxter girl looked interested. “Do you know, I’ve never seen it. One of Irving’s shows, wasn’t it?” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. But they were all quite solemn, even Anita. But then she never did listen to the Baxter girl. She had talked straight through her sentences. “But it’s not the material. It’s the way it’s handled. It’s never been done quite so thoroughly, from the woman’s point of view—so unadornedly. People are afraid of their ‘_poor girls_.’ There’s a formula that even the Immortals follow. They are all young and beautiful, and they all die. They must. They wouldn’t be tragic in continuation. But Madala’s woman doesn’t. That’s the point. There’s no pretence at making her a heroine. She’s just the ordinary stupidish sheep of a creature, ‘gone wrong.’ There’s no romantic halo, no love-glamour, no pity and terror, just the chronicle of a sordid life. And yet you can’t put the book down. At least I couldn’t put it down.” “Do _you_ like it?” I said to Kent Rehan, as he paused beside me in his eternal pacing from room to room. He looked at me oddly. “I respect it,” he said. “I don’t like it. People misjudged——” “If it had been the recognized love story”—Mr. Flood’s high voice silenced him—“the regularized irregularity, so to speak, it wouldn’t have been banned. It was the absence of a love story that the British public couldn’t forgive. It was cheated. It was shocked.” “But there is a love story at the beginning, isn’t there?” I said. “I haven’t read far.” Instantly the Baxter girl exhibited me— “Yes, imagine! She hasn’t read it!” “I’ve read _The Vicar of Wakefield_,” I said. And then I was annoyed that I had shown I was annoyed. But at once Miss Howe helped me. Miss Howe was always nice to me. “How far have you got? Where the man tires of her? Ah, yes! Well, after that it’s just her struggle. She—she earns her living—in the inevitable way. She grows into a miser. She hoards.” Mr. Flood looked acute. “That’s what upset them. They don’t mind a Magdalen; but Magdalen unaware, unrepentant, Magdalen preserving her ill-gotten gains—no, that’s not quite nice.”