“I don’t go to my friends for their food, but for their ideas,” said Miss Ford.

Sarah Brown was gliding towards the door.

“Oh, don’t go,” said the witch, who did not recognise tact when she met it.  “I have sent Harold the Broomstick for your Dog David and your Suit-case Humphrey.  He is an excellent packer and very clean in his person and work.  Please, please, don’t go.  Do you know, I live in constant dread of being left alone with a clever person.”

“I must apologise for my intrusion, in that case,” said Miss Ford, with dignity.  “I repeat, I only came because I saw yours was an exceptional case.”

There was a very long silence in the growing dusk.  The moon could already be seen through the glass door, rising, pushing vigorously aside the thickets of the crowded sky.  A crack across the corner of the glass was lighted up, and looked like a little sprig of lightning, plucked from a passing storm and preserved in the glass.

Miss Ford suddenly began to talk in a very quick and confused way.  Any sane hearer would have known that she was talking by mistake, that she was possessed by some distressingly Anti-Ford spirit, and that nothing she might say in parenthesis like this ought to be remembered against her.

“Oh, God,” said Miss Ford, “I have come because I am hungry, hungry for what you spoke of last night, in the dark....  You spoke of an April sea—­clashing of cymbals was the expression you used, wasn’t it?  You spoke of a shore of brown diamonds flat to the ruffled sea ... and white sandhills under a thin veil of grass ... and tamarisks all blown one way....”

“Well?” said the witch.

“Well,” faltered Miss Ford.  “I think I came to ask you ... whether you knew of nice lodgings there ... plain wholesome bath ... respectable cooking, hot and cold ...”

Her voice faded away pathetically.

There was a sudden shattering, as the door burst open, and a dog and a suit-case were swept in by a brisk broomstick.

“I am so sorry, Miss Watkins,” said Miss Ford stiffly.  Her face was scarlet—­neat and formal again now, but scarlet.—­“I am so sorry if I have talked nonsense.  I am rather run down, I think, too much work, four important meetings yesterday.  I sometimes think I shall break down.  I have such alarming nerve-storms.”

She looked nervously at Sarah Brown.  It is always tiresome to meet fellow-members of committees in private life, especially if one is in a mood for having nerve-storms.  People may be excellent in a philanthropic way, of course, and yet impossible socially.

But Sarah Brown had heard very little.  She always found Miss Ford’s voice difficult.  She was on her knees asking her dog David what it had felt like, coming.  But David was still too much dazed to say much.