“And she wouldn’t discuss it, you know. She came in after supper that night, just as I was reading the last chapter. It had only been out a day. There she sat, where you are now, Lila, smiling, with her hands in her lap and her eyes fixed on her hands, waiting for me to finish.” “Oh—” Miss Howe gave a little gushing scream, “that reminds me—d’you know, Anita, somebody actually told me that nobody had seen _The Resting-place_ before it was published, not even you. I was amused. I denied it, of course.” “Why?” said Anita coldly. Miss Howe screamed again. “Then you didn’t? Oh, my dear?” “Emancipation with a vengeance,” said Mr. Flood. “It had to come, Anita,” said Miss Howe with deadly sympathy. “It was not that. It was only—she was so extraordinarily sensitive about the _Resting-place_—unlike herself altogether. I think, I’ve always thought that she herself knew how unworthy it was of her. She—what’s the use of disguising it?—she, at least, had a value for my judgment,” her eyes, wandering past Miss Howe, brooded upon the Baxter girl, “and she knew what my judgment would be. She owned it. She anticipated it. I had shut the book, you know, quietly. She sat so still that I thought she was asleep. She had had one of those insane mornings——” “Of course. She used to take a crowd of children into the country, didn’t she?” “Once a week. Slum children.” “I know. ‘To eat buttercups,’ she told me,” said Miss Howe. “It was ridiculous, you know. She couldn’t afford it. Look at the way she lived! I always said to her, ‘If you can afford mad extravagances of that sort, you can afford a decent flat in a decent neighbourhood’——” “Oh, but I loved those rooms,” said the Baxter girl, “with the Spanish leather screen round the wash-hand-stand.” Anita glanced behind her. “Ah, you’ve noticed? I happened to admire it one day and—you know what she is—‘Would you like it? Why, of course, it would just suit the rest of your things. Oh, you must have it. I’d like you to. It’s far too big for this room.’ ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘if you want it housed——’ So that’s how it comes to be here. One couldn’t hurt her feelings. And you know, it was quite unsuitable to lodging-house furniture.” Miss Howe laughed. “It disguised the wash-hand-stand. That was all Madala cared. Only then she always took you round to show you how beautifully it did disguise it.” “Typical,” said Mr. Flood. “Her reserves were topsy-turvy.” “But she had her reserves,” said Miss Howe quickly. “I doubt that,” he answered her.