"Yes," said Ben.
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.
