Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. Nigel Ennison was he. Look what you have brought upon your pets. ’ ‘What? But—’ ‘Precisely, Hilary. ‘Though he didn’t mean it. It was a moment before he recognised that the effect had been similar on all those present, including General Lord Charvill. “Kindly explain it to me. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. Stop it. By a sort of instinct. It was wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion.
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