She shut her eyes, but, as always happens, there remained a square luminous patch on their retinas.

And then, all at once, it was as if she saw, depicted on the white, faintly illuminated space, a scene which might have figured in one of those cinema-plays to which she and her house-mate, during those happy days when she had lived in London, used so often to go with one or other of their temporary admirers.
On the white, luminous background two pretty little hands were moving about, a little uncertainly, over a window-ledge on which stood a row of medicine bottles.

Then, suddenly the two pretty hands became engaged in doing something which is done by woman's hands every day--the pouring of a liquid from one bottle into another.
Enid Crofton did not visualise the owner of the hands.

She had no wish to do so, but she did see the hands.
Then there started out before her, with astonishing vividness, another little scene--this time with a man as central figure.

He was whistling; that she knew, though she could not hear the whistling.