Anthony was leaning against one of the elephants.
"Poor devil!" he said.
Mrs. Tetteridge looked up. There was a curious little smile about her pretty mouth.
"You don't like me," she said to Anthony.
"I should," answered Anthony, "quite well, if I didn't like Emy."
She came to the other end of the mantelpiece, resting her hand upon it.
"I've got you here alone," she said with a laugh, "and I'm going to have it out with you. I'm sorry you don't like me because I like you very much. But that isn't the important thing. I don't want you taking Emy's side against me. You've got great influence over him, and I'm afraid of you."
Anthony was about to answer. She made a gesture.
"Let me finish," she said, "then we shall both know what we're up against. You think I'm spoiling his life, robbing him of his dreams. What were they, put into plain language? To compose a little music; to write a little poetry. He'd never have earned enough to live on. Perhaps before he died he might have composed something out of which a music publisher might have pocketed thousands. He might have written poems that
