“Sentimental. Anita says so. She says she doesn’t know what happened to her over _The Resting-place_.” “I like the title,” I said. “Yes, so do I. And I love the opening where——Oh, but you haven’t read it. And you’re Anita’s cousin! What a comedy! Just like Anita, though, not to speak of her.” “Why? Doesn’t Anita like her?” The Baxter girl was flat on the cushions again. She looked at me with those furtive eyes that always so strangely qualified her garrulity. “Are you shrewd? Or was that chance?” “What?” “‘Doesn’t Anita like her?’” “Doesn’t she then?” “Ah, now you’re asking! Officially, very much. Too much, _I_ should say. And too much is just the same as the other thing, I think. Would you like Anita for your bosom friend?” Naturally I said— “Anita’s been very kind to me.” Anita’s my cousin, after all. I didn’t like the Baxter girl’s tone. “Oh, she’s been kind to me.” The Baxter girl caught me up quickly. She was like a sensitive plant for all her crudity. “Oh, I admire Anita. She’s the finest judge of style in England. Jasper Flood says so. You mustn’t think I say a word against Anita. Very kind to me she’s been.” Then, innocently, but her eyes were flickering again—“She was kind to Madala too, till——” “Well?” I demanded. “Till Madala was kind to her. Madala’s one of those big people. She’ll never forget what she owes Anita—what Anita told her she owed her. After she made her own name she made Anita’s. Anita, being Anita, doesn’t forget that.” “How d’you mean—made Anita’s name?” “Well, look at the people who come here—the people who count. What do you think the draw was? Anita? Oh yes, _now_. But they came first for Madala. Oh, those early days when _Eden Walls_ was just out! Of course Anita had sense for ten. She ran Madala for all she was worth.” “Then you do like Madala Grey?” “I?” The Baxter girl looked at me oddly. “She read my book. She wrote to me. That’s why Anita took me up. She let me come to the Nights. She started them, you know. Somebody reads a story or a poem, and then it’s talk till the milkman comes. Good times! But now Madala’s married she doesn’t come often. Anita carries on like grim death, of course. But it’s not the same. Last month it was dreary.” “Is it every month?” “Yes. It’s tomorrow again. Tomorrow’s Sunday, isn’t it? It’ll amuse you. You’ll come, of course, as you’re in the house.” “Will she? Herself?” I found myself reproducing the Baxter girl’s eagerness. “Not now.” The common voice had deepened queerly. “She’s very ill.” She hesitated. “That’s why I came today. I thought Anita might have heard. Not my business, of course, but——” She made an awkward, violent gesture with her hands. “Oh, a genius oughtn’t to marry. It’s wicked waste. Well, so long! See you tomorrow night!” She left me abruptly.