But as for the reading in psychology, Edith's opinion remembered was still not quite acceptable. Freud and his successors still seemed to Callista like the best available guides into the nearest and most tormenting section of the jungle. One could rule out those who had fallen into worship of the sofa-pillow god Adjustment, and in doing so lost sight of the individual self or never noticed it. One could also remain critical of any guide, since the self must learn the sound of its own voice and discover its own country. Yes--but all that was before Ann Doherty drank poison. Once more laboriously, appearing to herself rather like a high school child hungry for a good mark, Callista attempted to review her knowledge of that night last August. Not only as it would be presented when she took the stand (as she must do whether Cecil thought best or not) but as it would be declared to the court of her own intelligence before that court could grant any acquittal. The face of Judge Mann intruded, however, again and once again, when her toiling revery reached the Blank, the lost moment, the miserable blur of amnesia where the crucial thing, the one answer Callista must have, was surely lying hidden. A quiet face, probably wise and certainly not vain, with the small chronic frown, the sense of cleanness and good health, the gentleness that Callista believed no face could wear if it were functioning as a mask--very well then: admit the face of Judge Terence Mann to this lonely privacy and make use of it. Let the empty wall beside the barred door dissolve a little. Blur the flat plaster, doubtless reinforced within; it looks like stone and by daylight shows a few sad scribblings of the last tenant, not quite scrubbed away: _Why can't they let me read what the wench wrote and criticize her bit of a drawing that might now be either a baby or a phallus?_--blur that, and let the high walnut bench stand there. Give him the gown--_black, please!_--and the pencil, and the look, startled but not unkind, that he wore when the spiteful child said: "_Which is the Clerk?_" He would be less ghostly if now and then, there in the foggy opening of the wall, he could move his thin hand in the writing--could it possibly be drawing?--up there in the dignified isolation where even Mr. Delehanty, the Clerk-which-is-the-Clerk, couldn't watch it. _All right now? Go ahead!_