“It began last summer when I came back from Ireland; he had been here alone for six weeks, and I thought him looking tired and queer⁠—ragged and scattered about the face, if you know what I mean, and his manner worn out. He said he had been writing hard, but his inspiration had somehow failed him, and he was dissatisfied with his work. His sense of humour was leaving him, or changing into something else, he said. There was something in the house, he declared, that”⁠—she emphasised the words⁠—“prevented his feeling funny.”

“Something in the house that prevented his feeling funny,” repeated the doctor. “Ah, now we’re getting to the heart of it!”

“Yes,” she resumed vaguely, “that’s what he kept saying.”

“And what was it he did that you thought strange?” he asked sympathetically. “Be brief, or he may be here before you finish.”