all right as theories—but he fits people to them, instead of them to people. Procrustes. He’d torture a woman from the kindest of motives. It’s lack of imagination. Haven’t you noticed?’ ‘Considering he’s one of the great imaginative artists of the day, Madala,’ I said to her, ‘that’s rather sweeping.’ ‘But that’s why,’ she said. ‘It’s just because he’s a genius. He lives on himself, in himself. Kent’s an island.’ I said—‘No chance of a bridge, Madala?’ She shook her head. ‘Not my job.’ I said I was sorry. I was, too. It would have been so ideal, that pair. I wanted to argue it with her; but she wouldn’t listen. She said—‘If I weren’t an artist too, then maybe—maybe. I’m very fond of Kent. But no—I’d want too much. But, you know, there’s a woman somewhere, rather like me—I hope he’ll marry her. I’d love her. She’d never be jealous of me. She’d understand. She’s me without the writing, without the outlet. She’ll pour it all into loving him. I hope she’s alive somewhere. He’d be awfully happy. And if he had children—that’s what he needs. I can just see him with children. But not my children. If I married——’ And then she flushed up to the eyes in that way she had, as if she were fifteen. ‘I—I’d like to be married for myself, for my faults, for the bits I don’t tell anyone. Kent would hate my faults. I’d have to hide my realest self.’ She stood staring out of the window. Then she said, still in that rueful, childish voice—‘I would like to be liked.’ ‘But, my dear girl,’ said I, ‘what nonsense you talk! If ever a woman had friends——’ She flung round at me again—‘If I’d not written _Eden Walls_ would Anita have looked at me—or any of you?’ I said—‘That’s not a fair question. Your books _are_ you, the quintessence, the very best of you.’ ‘But the rest of me?’ she said, ‘but the _rest_ of me?’ I laughed at her. ‘Well, what about the rest of you?’ Then she said, in a small voice—‘It feels rather out of it sometimes, Lila.’” “I say,” Mr. Flood twinkled at her, “are you going to present all this to Anita? She’d be grateful.” “Not she,” said Miss Howe sharply. “Too much fact would spoil her theory. Let her spin her own web.” “Agreed. There’s room for more than one biography, eh?” They laughed together a little consciously. “You know,” the blonde lady recalled them, “she must have been quite a good actress. She always seemed perfectly contented.” “Imagine Madala Grey discontented,” said the Baxter girl. “How could she be?” “Oh, Kent was at the root of that,” said Miss Howe, “for all her talk.” Mr. Flood nodded. “Yes, the lady did protest too much, if your report’s correct.” “It’s the only explanation and, as you said, Blanche, in her heart Anita knows it. After all, he’s a somebody. Madala wouldn’t be the only one who’s found him attractive, eh?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t be scandalous, Lila,” said the blonde lady virtuously, and Mr. Flood gave his little sniff of enjoyment.