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. “Now I should like to know,” she said, looking at him with a quiet smile, “what you are doing here? It is not a particularly inspiring neighbourhood for walking about by yourself. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. “My name is certainly Pellissier,” she said, “but I am very sorry—I do not recognize you in the least. ‘And why have you not arrested him? Do not tell me you have allowed him to escape you. Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. The winters were terrible in cold climates, and she often had been driven to dig herself large underground pits where she waited it out like a mole in the cold months. Those I don’t mind, though, the games.
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