“God help her readers! Jenny, open the window. That girl reeks of patchouli.” And then—“Why do I waste my time?” And Great-aunt Serle in her corner would chuckle and poke and mutter, but not loud— “Why does she waste her time? Listen to my daughter!” The next time the Baxter girl came Anita would hardly speak to her. The Baxter girl seemed to take it as a matter of course. But once she said to me, with a look on her face as if she were defending herself— “Ah—but you don’t write. You’re not keen. You don’t know what it means to be in the set.” “But such heaps of people come to see Anita,” I said, “people she hardly knows.” “They’re only the fringes,” said the Baxter girl complacently. “They’re not in the Grey set. They don’t come to the Nights. At least, only a few. Jasper Flood, of course—You’ve met him, haven’t you?—and Lila Howe—_Masquerade_, you know, and _Sir Fortinbras_.” The Baxter girl always ticketed everyone she mentioned. “And the Whitneys. She used to stay with the Whitneys. And Roy Huth. And of course Kent Rehan.” “Kent Rehan?” “_The_ Kent Rehan,” said the Baxter girl. Then I remembered. The vicar’s wife always sent Mother the Academy catalogue after she had been up to town. I used to cut out the pictures I liked, and I liked Kent Rehan’s. They had wind blowing through them, and sunshine, and jolly blobs that I knew must be raw colour, and always the same woman. But you could never see her face, only a cheek curve or a shoulder line. They were in the catalogue every year, and so I told the Baxter girl. She laughed. “Yes, he’s always on the line. Anita says that’s the worst she knows of him. And of course the veiled lady——” she laughed again, knowingly, “But there is one full face, I believe. _The Spring Song_ he calls it. But it’s never been shown. Anita’s seen it. She told me. He keeps it locked away in his studio. They say he’s in love with her.” “With whom?” “Madala Grey, of course.” I said— “Who is Madala Grey?” The Baxter girl had sunk into the cushions until she was prone. I had been wondering with the bit of mind that wasn’t listening what the people at home would have said to her, with her cobweb stockings (it was November) and her coloured combs and her sprawl. It was a relief to see her sit up suddenly. “‘Who’s Madala Grey!’” Her mouth stayed open after she’d finished the sentence. “Yes,” I said. “Who is she?” “You mean to say you’ve never heard of Madala Grey? You’ve never read _Eden Walls_? Is there anyone in England who hasn’t read _Eden Walls_?” “Heaps,” I said. She annoyed me. She—they—they all thought me a fool at Anita’s. The Baxter girl sighed luxuriously. “My word, I envy you! I wish I was reading _Eden Walls_ for the first time—or _Ploughed Fields_. I don’t care so much about _The Resting-place_.” She laughed. “At least—one’s not supposed to care about _The Resting-place_, you know. It’s as much as one’s life’s worth—one’s literary life.” “What’s wrong with it?”