“I don’t know much about the technique of music,” he said at last, with his eyes upon her. Entering the workshop, he found the blacksmith occupied in heating the tire of a cart wheel. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. But over against the world Miss Miniver assembled a small but energetic minority, the Children of Light—people she described as “being in the van,” or “altogether in the van,” about whom Ann Veronica’s mind was disposed to be more sceptical. ” “You do not understand me at all,” she declared. But was it Faith? That is what she was this day going to find out.
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