‘But I ain’t been idle, miss, I swear it. I don’t idealize you. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Her aunt went out of the room with dignity and a rustle, and up-stairs to the fastness of her own room. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. ’ There was a silence. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered.
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