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Clarice was from Lombardy, fair-haired and light skinned. E. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. It was a moment of breathless interest to all engaged in the attempt. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. 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. “Let us put the lamp out,” she said; “the flames are ever so much better for talking,” and Ann Veronica agreed. She took a deep breath.

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