I shuddered. Mrs. Ascher looked at me and smiled again, a half-pitiful smile.
“I suppose I must have,” I said. “But I won’t let it break loose in that way again. I’ll suppress it. It’s—it’s—this is rather an insulting thing to say to you, but it’s a humiliating discovery to make that I have——”
Mrs. Ascher nodded.
“My husband always says that you Irish——”
“He’s quite wrong,” I said; “quite wrong about me at all events. I hate paradoxes. I’m a plain man. The only thing I really admire is common sense.”
“I understand,” she said. “I understand exactly what you feel.”
She is a witch and very likely did understand. I did not.
“Now,” she said. “Now, I can talk to you. Sit down, please.”
She pulled over a low stool, the only seat in the room. I sat on it. Mrs. Ascher stood, or rather drooped in front of me, leaning on one hand, which rested, palm down, on the table where Tim Gorman’s image stood. I doubt whether Mrs. Ascher ever stands straight or is capable of any kind of stiffness. But even drooping, she had a distinct advantage over me. My stool was very low and my legs are long. If I ventured to lean forwards, my knees would have touched my chin, a position in which it is impossible for a man to assert himself.
“I am so very glad,” she said, “that you like the little head.”