Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Then she turned, and entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street. 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. Accepting his glass from the butler, Gerald glanced at Mrs Sindlesham and saw a dimple peep out.
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