Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. Your aunt liked the pheasant. “Very,” and cracked a walnut appreciatively. Now, no more questions, or I shall be forced to leave the room. As Mrs. Good night. Only she was conscious of an unfamiliar and wonderful emotion. “Please, stay a while longer.
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