understand. Are you asking me to give you the manuscript or to give my
consent to its publication?"

"Well--both. I _have_ to ask you because he never would do it
himself."

"Why should he not?"

"Oh, well, you know his ridiculous notions of honour."

"I do indeed. I daresay some people would consider them ridiculous."

It was this speech, Maddox confessed, that first set his back up. He
was irritated more by the calm assumption of proprietorship in Rickman
than by the implied criticism of himself.

"Do you mind telling me," she continued, still imperturbably, "how you
came to know anything about it?"

Maddox stiffened. "I am Mr. Rickman's oldest and most intimate friend,
and he has done me the honour to make me his literary executor."

"Did he also give you leave to settle his affairs beforehand?"

Maddox shrugged his shoulders by way of a reply.

"If he did not," said Lucia, "there's nothing more to be said."

"Pardon me, there is a great deal more to be said. I don't know
whether you have any personal reason for objecting--"

She coloured and was silent.

"If it's pride, I should have thought most women would have been
prouder--" (A look from Lucia warned him that he would do well to
refrain from thinking.) "Oh, well, for all I know you might have fifty
good reasons. The question is, are you justified in sacrificing a work
of genius to any mere personal feeling?"

He had her there, and she knew it. She was silently considering the
question. Three years ago she would have had no personal feeling in
the matter beyond pride in the simple dedication. Now that personal
feeling had come in and had concentrated itself upon that work of
genius, and made it a thing so sacred and so dear to her, she shrank
with horror from the vision of publicity. Besides, it was all of Keith
Rickman that was left to her. His other works were everybody's
property; therefore she clung the more desperately to that one which,
as he had said, belonged to nobody but her. And Mr. Maddox had no
right to question her. Instead of answering him she moved her chair a
little farther from him and from the light.

Now Maddox had the coldness as well as the passion of the Celt. He was
not touched by Lucia's beauty, nor yet by the signs of illness or
fatigue manifest in her face and all her movements. Her manner
irritated him; it seemed the feminine counterpart of her cousin's
insufferable apathy. He felt helpless before her immobility. Bu