A little old lady sat by the fire in a small sitting-room in West
Kensington. Her cat was in her lap, her spectacles were on her nose;
she was reading the morning's paper, and beside her, on a little
occasional table, was her tea and a buttered muffin. She had finished
the crimes and she was reading about the Royal Family. When she had
read all there was to read about the Royal Family, she put down the
paper, deposited the cat on the hearthrug, and turned to her tea. She
had poured out her first cup and she had just taken up a quadrant of
muffin when the trump and the flash came. Through its instant duration
she remained motionless with the quadrant of muffin poised halfway to
her mouth. Then very slowly she put the morsel down.
"Now what was that?" she said.
She surveyed the cat, but the cat was quite calm. Then she looked
very, very hard at her lamp. It was a patent safety lamp, and had
always behaved very well. Then she stared at the window, but the
curtains were drawn and everything was in order.
"One might think I was going to be ill," she said, and resumed her
toast.