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. He unhooked it from the front clasp. I must provide for my safety. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. She threw hat and coat on the bed and sat down before the fire. Conscience drove him to this side of the world, to this bed. But she made no answer. Though not much passed the middle term of life, he seemed prematurely stricken with old age. He shook his head all the time.
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