All about her sat forms, bowed like her own, scarcely moving. Of course, of course--she nodded to herself--satisfied with her own acuteness. Obviously, the Last Judgment.... They were all waiting for God.... He hadn't arrived yet, it seemed.... Well, one might look about a little first.... How queer Heaven smelt! The heart of Louise leapt within her.... Now was the opportunity to find Mother.... Mother would be somewhere among the dead.... But they all had ugly backs.... But Mother.... Of course Mother would be standing on that high platform place like a throne.... It was her place.... She always stood there.... Or did she? Was there not some one else? very like her ... with eyes ... and a smile ... whom Louise knew so well? Wasn't it Mother? With patient deliberation she strove to disentangle the two personalities, that combined and divided and blurred again into one. There was Mother--and the Other--one was shape and one was shadow--but which was real? There was Mother--and the Other--who was Mother? No, who was--who was--The Other was not Mother--but if not, who?--who?--who?-- A chorus of angels took up the chant: Who? who? who? They had flat, faint voices, that gritted and whispered, like pens passing over paper. Who? who? who? The answer came thundering back out of infinite space in the awaited voice of God.... "You have ten minutes more." Louise gave a faint gasp. Reality enveloped her once more, licking up her illusion as instantly and fiercely as an unnoticed candle will shrivel up a woman's muslins. She stood naked amid the ashes of her dreams. She glanced wildly about her. The girls at her elbows were furiously at work. The little examiner had put away his book and was staring at her. Her eyes fell. Before her lay foolscap, fair and blank, save for her name in the corner, and a close-printed paper that she did not recognise, clamouring for information anent Shelley, and Carlyle, and the Mermaid Tavern. Because, of course, she was at the Literature examination, and there were ten minutes more. And she had written nothing. An instant she sat appalled. Then she snatched up her pen and wrote.... Her pen fled across the paper at Tam o' Shanter speed, leaving its trail of shapeless, delirious sentences. She never paused to consider--she wrote. She knew only that she had ten--twelve--fifteen questions to answer, and ten minutes in which to do it. Ten minutes for a two and a half hours' paper! No matter--if one stopped to think.... Hurry! hurry! Shelley was born in 1792--he was the son of Sir Timothy Shelley, of Field Place, near Horsham---- When the examiner collected the papers, she had written exactly two pages. CHAPTER XIX