Gerald closed the door and released Melusine, and then went to open the shutters on a window that faced the side of the house. Into this new world, vivid with colour, came Spurlock, receptively. "I've spoken. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. 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. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree.
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