rman's head again. She
ran her finger lightly round the rim of the saucer.

"What shall I do with this?" she said. "What is his head to stand on,
to rise from? I was thinking of water-lily leaves, as if the head were
emerging----"

I felt that I owed Mrs. Ascher some frankness in return for my first
insult to her intelligence. Besides, I was moved. I was, as I had not
been for years, emotional. Tim Gorman's head gripped me in a curious
way.

"Good God, Woman," I said, "anything in the world but that! Wrap up that
chorus girl of a Psyche in leaves if you like. Sprinkle rose petals over
her or any other damned sentimentalism. But this man is a mechanic. He
has invented a cash register. What in the name of all that's holy has
he got to do with water-lily leaves? Put hammers round his head, and
pincers, and long nails."

I stopped. I realised suddenly that I was making an unutterable fool of
myself. I was talking as I never talked in my life before, saying out
loud the sort of things I have carefully schooled myself neither to feel
nor to think.

"After all," said Mrs. Ascher, "you have an artist's soul."

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."

I was not goin