The part of her that was asking questions seemed separate from her racing undertow of feeling. She was the frightened child who was shy about games because she was always playing and watching simultaneously. What should she ask? It was vegetable and in the room. She had a preposterous eagerness to say something wildly absurd, she was weary of telling lies. If it had been Animal, she might have said “Is it George’s love for me?” Their faces would have been comic. But it was Vegetable.... My vegetable love shall grow Vaster than empires and more slow ... but if I quote that it will have to be explained. Why do poems insist on coming into the mind at instants of trouble? “Is it Mr. Brook’s cigar?” “No,” said George. “Is it associated with some person in this room?” “Yes,” said Martin. A little self-consciously, she thought. “Look here,” George interrupted. “That answer of Phyl’s wasn’t quite right. Is it fair to say it’s vegetable?” “It _was_ vegetable, vegetable in origin,” Phyllis protested. “Yes, but in a way it’s animal too. It’s _becoming_ animal.” “Is it--any one’s affection for any one else?” Joyce demanded promptly. “No,” said Ruth, amid general laughter. “The difficulty with this game,” said Phyllis, “is that there are so many questions you can’t answer just Yes or No.” “That’s why it’s a good game,” said George. “It’s like life.” Joyce tried to recapitulate. It was in this room, associated with a person, it was vegetable in origin but becoming animal ... but how absurd. Perhaps they mean becoming _to_ an animal, she thought. “Is it Mrs. Granville’s silver dress?” “No.” “Is it anything to wear?” “No.” “Is it associated with a man or a woman?” “I can’t answer that Yes or No,” said George. “Well, with a man?” “Yes.” “Is it something I can see now?” she asked, looking directly at him. “You’re asking him twice,” Martin said. “It’s my turn.” Why did her mind keep straying away? Standing in the middle of the circle, she could feel them surrounding her, desiring her to divine this thing. Perhaps it was something she didn’t want to guess, something that would mean---- She repeated the question, looking at Martin this time. “No,” he said, smiling. Her mind was a blank. She went round the group again, asking almost at random. The succession of No’s had a curiously numbing effect. But she knew, without having put the question directly, that it was something connected with Martin. She came to Ben, on the last time round. She stared at his white canvas shoes, trying to think. “Is it ... is it----” She turned away from the strong scent of his cigar. The glimmer of coloured light on the dining-room table caught and held her. It suggested: “Something to do with a cake?” “Yes,” said Ben, amazed. They were all startled, for her last attempts had been far off the track. “Two more tries,” said George, encouraging her.