Dent turned and faced her.
"What of it?"
"It's a-blowing."
"What of it?"
"There isn't a mite of wind this morning."
Mrs. Dent turned with an inimitable toss of her fair head. "If you
think I can spend my time puzzling over such nonsense as--" she
began, but Rebecca interrupted her with a cry and a rush to the
door.
"There she is now!" she cried. She flung the door wide open, and
curiously enough a breeze came in and her own gray hair tossed, and
a paper blew off the table to the floor with a loud rustle, but
there was nobody in sight.
"There's nobody here," Rebecca said.
She looked blankly at the other woman, who brought her rolling-pin
down on a slab of pie-crust with a thud.
"I didn't hear anybody," she said calmly.
"I SAW SOMEBODY PASS THAT WINDOW!"
"You were mistaken again."
"I KNOW I saw somebody."
"You couldn't have. Please shut that door."
Rebecca shut the door. She sat down beside the window and looked
out on the autumnal yard, with its little curve of footpath to the
kitchen door.
"What smells so strong of roses in this room?" she said presently.
She sniffed hard.
"I don't smell anything but these nutmegs.
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