Warren’s Profession furtively with Hetty Widgett from the gallery of a Stage Society performance one Monday afternoon. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. The Law was around the corner and down the narrow hall, puffing a Virginia Slims Menthol in frantic sips, teetering uncomfortably out of an emergency exit door. Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St. Some shadow of reserve seemed to have crept up between them. That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge. 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.
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