She obeyed instantly, flushing; and as she did so she thought to herself—‘I could be afraid of that man,’ but a moment afterwards—‘He _is_ like a small boy.’ “Now that may be Kent—oh, it is Kent, of course—but it’s not Madala’s attitude to Kent. She was not in the least afraid of him.” “Ah, but that later passage, the country passage—that’s pure Madala.” “Yes. Just where it ceases to be Kent—‘He stoops, I suppose. He’s worn out with work. He’s quite ordinary.’ That’s not Kent.” “No, that’s true. One doesn’t know where to have her. She muddles her trail,” said Mr. Flood. “I call it weakness of touch not to let you know whom she drew from,” said the Baxter girl. “Ah, but she always insisted that she didn’t draw portraits.” “Of course. They always do. If one believed _them_ one would never get behind the scenes, and if one can’t get behind the scenes one might as well be mere public and read for the story,” said the Baxter girl indignantly. “Well, you know,” Miss Howe sat turning over the pages of _The Resting-place_ with careful, almost with caressing fingers, “I don’t believe she meant to draw portraits. She had queer, old-fashioned notions. I think she would have thought it—treacherous.” “The portraits are there though, if you look close enough,” insisted the Baxter girl. “Yes, but they happened in spite of her. Anyone she was fond of she took into her, in a sense: and when her gift descended upon her and demanded expression, then, all unconsciously, she expressed them too. But gilded! We find ourselves in her books, and we never knew before how lovable we are. You’re right, Blanche, _she liked whate’er she looked on_. And you’re right too, Jasper, _Grande amoureuse_, she was that. That capacity for loving made her what she was. The technical facility was her talent and her luck; but it was her own personality that turned it into genius.” “Then after all you admit the genius,” said the Baxter girl triumphantly. “No. No. No. My judgment says no. When I read her books in cold blood—no. But we’ve been talking about her. It’s as if she were with us, and when she’s with us my judgment goes! That’s the secret of Madala Grey. She does what she likes with us. But the next generation, the people who don’t know her, whether they’ll find in her books what we do, is doubtful. Who wants a dried rose?” “Yes, but Miss Serle—in the _Life_? Won’t she—preserve her?” “Preserve—exactly! But not revive. No, I’d sooner pin my faith to _The Spring Song_, although I haven’t seen it. It ought to be a revelation. She eluded Nita, impishly. I’ve seen her do it. But there’s no doubt that she gave Kent his chance.” “Every chance. She’d deny it, I suppose.”