Miss Howe looked up at her quizzingly. “Madala and——Where _is_ Kent?” “With Mother still. He’s managed her extraordinarily. She’s getting sleepy, thank goodness! He’ll be down in a minute.” Then, with a change of tone—“Madala and Kent? I think not, Lila dear.” “But you said yourself——” the Baxter girl interposed. “Oh no! I flung it out—a suggestion—a possibility. I haven’t committed myself—yet. I wish I could be sure of Kent. He’s upset my conception of him tonight. I should have said—selfish. Especially over Madala. But all men are selfish. Yet, tonight——” she hesitated, playing with the papers that lay half in, half out of the open desk. “But who was it, if it wasn’t Kent? Because there _was_ someone, you know——” And then, as if Miss Howe’s smile annoyed her beyond prudence—“Do you think I’m inventing? Do you think I’ve talked for amusement’s sake? I tell you, she was on the verge of an elopement. _Without_ benefit of clergy!” “Anita!” Miss Howe half rose from her chair. “We’re getting it at last.” Mr. Flood addressed the room. “I knew she had something up her sleeve.” “I don’t believe—I won’t believe it,” said Miss Howe. Then Anita smiled. “Didn’t I say she was careless about her drafts? I’ve a fragment here—no, I’ve left it in my writing-table——” and she rose as she spoke—“no name, but it’s proof enough. It’s an answer to some man’s letter.” “But does she definitely consent——?” began the Baxter girl. “Not in so many words. But it’s obvious there was some cause or impediment, and he, whoever he is, has evidently had qualms of conscience about letting her call the world well lost for his sweet sake.” “That would rule out Kent, of course,” said Miss Howe thoughtfully. “There was no reason why Kent shouldn’t marry.” “We know of none,” said Anita in her suggestive voice. “Isn’t that as much as one can say of any man?” “Ah!” said the Baxter girl, illuminated. I don’t know why—her round eyes, I suppose, and her pursed mouth—but she reminded me of the woodcut of Minerva’s owl in _Larousse_. “So you see my prime difficulty. I’ve passed under review every man of her acquaintance, till I narrowed down the possible——” “Affinities,” said the blonde lady. “—to Kent Rehan, John Carey, and this probable but unknown third. There I hang fire. Until I make up my mind on which of the three her love story hinges, I can’t do more than trifle with the _Life_. And how shall I make up my mind?” “Three?” said Mr. Flood. “Two. You can eliminate the husband. He’s fifth act, not third.” “Yes, of course. But I never jump a step. Which leaves me the unknown—or Kent.” The blonde lady leant forward rather eagerly— “Nita! Where’s that letter?” “I’ll get it.” She went across the room to her writing-table. The Baxter girl twisted her head. “I say! He’s coming down the stairs.” “If she read aloud that draft——” the blonde lady’s drawl had disappeared. She glittered like an excited schoolgirl—“he might recognize——”