‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. His safety must be looked to. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. No—you shall come with me to Waterloo. She tossed her head, and, having no further words, moved toward the door. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. 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. “It is like old times,” she said, “to hear these home truths.
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