Miss Rubina Strange looked round the room with the air of a pilgrim visiting a holy place.
"And is this, dear Peter," she said in a hushed whisper, "where she writes those wonderful words?"
"Umph," answered William.
"Oh, my dear! To think that I see it with my poor unworthy eyes. I have imagined it so often!"
Then she raised her long, thin nose, and sniffed.
"Peter, dear, there's just a faint smell of it ... surely your dear mother doesn't smoke cigarettes?"
"No," said William, absently, "it was a pipe he was smoking."
"Who?"
"Him," said William, who was beginning to tire of the whole thing. It was the thought of the tricycle alone that upheld him.
"Your poor mind is unhinged," said Miss Rubina, soothingly. "I expect you are worrying over your mother's illness, which I'm sure you exaggerate, darling. I'm sure she'd have written to tell me if she'd been really ill. Is this the pen she writes with? And is this blotting-paper she's actually used? Peter, dear, do you think I could take just a corner of it—just a corner, just to remember my visit by for always?"