IT was nine o’clock next morning when Constance awoke. Doctor Murchison had told her to be in no hurry to join him, but to take all the rest she needed after her journey. She spent her time, as she dressed, by the open window, in the cool mountain air, collecting her thoughts for the professional interview which she was shortly to have with her chief. She must try to be ready and clear and efficient, making a good impression from the start.
She prided herself, above all, on being clear. It was her habit to put her thoughts, as she termed it, into boxes—one box for each thought or subject. This metaphor had been to her from childhood the greatest comfort and assistance. She imagined her mind as a large room containing rows and rows of boxes all neatly ordered, and each of them marked with
