Suddenly from where he sat, half way between me and them, Kent spoke— “Anita, you can’t publish that letter.” Her face, all their faces, turned towards us. She stared. “Why not?” And then—“Why do you sit out there? Come here. Come into the light.” He did not stir. She frowned, puckering her eyes. “Such a fog,” she said fretfully. “I can’t see you. Can’t you keep that door shut, Jenny?” Then—“Well, Kent—why not? Why not?” He said slowly— “It’s not decent.” She flared at once. “Decent! Not decent! What on earth do you mean?” He kept her waiting while he thought it out. “I mean—it’s not right, it’s not fair. To whomever it was written, that’s her business, not our business. And that letter——It’s vile, anyway, publishing her letters.” She stared at him in a sort of angry bewilderment. “But why? I shall write her life. One always does print letters.” “Not that sort of letter,” he said. “But don’t you see,” she cried, “that _that_ letter, just _that_ letter——” He said— “That’s why. How dare you read that letter here—aloud—tonight? It—it’s ghoulish.” “Kent!” There was outrage in her voice. “But, Kent——” Miss Howe intervened—“we knew her—we care—it’s in all reverence——” And Mr. Flood— “My dear man, she’s not a private character. The lives that will be written! Anita’s may be the classic, but it won’t be the only one. Letters are bound to be printed—every scrap she ever wrote. Nobody can stop it. It’s only a question of time. The public has its rights.” “To what?” He turned savagely. “You’ve had her books. She’s given enough. Will you leave her nothing private, nothing sacred?” “But, Kent, can’t you see——” Anita had an air of pushing Miss Howe and Mr. Flood from her road—“aren’t you artist enough to see——? A writer, a woman like Madala, she has no private life. She lives to write. She lives what she writes. She _is_ what she writes. She gives her soul to the world. She leaves her riddle to be read. Don’t you see? to be read. That’s what I’m doing. That’s what I’m going to do—read her—for the rest of you, for the public. Because—because they care, because we all care. It’s done in all honour. It’s a tribute. And for what I am going to do, such a letter is the key.” She spoke softly, sweetly, persuasively. She wooed him to agree with her. She was extraordinarily eager for his approval. And the approval of the others she did win. They were all murmuring agreement. His eyes strayed over them, undecidedly, seeking—not help. I do not know what he sought, but his eyes found mine. “_You_——” he said to me—“would you want your letter——?” Anita’s voice thrust in sharply. In the instant the pleading, the beauty, the woman, was gone from it. It was cold and shrill. “Jenny’s views can hardly concern us.” But he did not listen to her. He had drawn some answer from me that satisfied him. He got up. “Oh,” I cried beneath my breath, and I think I touched his arm—“you won’t let her?”