“It is Martin,” said she.
The back view had done its part. Lady Sunningdale turned completely round again.
“Dearest Stella,” she said, “pray put out the electric light. It is rather strong in my eyes. Yes, Martin now!”
Stella felt as she turned out the light that this was exactly what she wished. In the dim flickering firelight her thoughts, drawn to the surface, became articulate more easily.
“He is just what you say,” she said. “You touch him, and never know whether it is going to be lightning or clay. The lightning does not disconcert me. But, dear Lady Sunningdale, the clay does!”
Lady Sunningdale was really immensely interested. She had her own methods of getting the girl to rummage in the dark corners of her mind and bring out all that was there, and she pursued them now.
“Clay is not really disconcerting,” she said; “it is only the possibility of clay when you expect lightning. My own darling Sunningdale is entirely clay. Of course there is clay in Martin; there is in everybody. How have you managed to come across it? Because he has singularly little.”
“Music is his lightning,” said Stella.
“Do you mean that the rest is clay?” asked Lady Sunningdale.
There was a pause, and Stella turned out an extremely dark corner in her mind, something really quite below the stairs.