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impression which she had conveyed, as I had had every opportunity of knowing, at every age since she was sixteen. Anneypenny tongues had taken much exercise in speculating why Rona had never married, but they were agreed that it could not have been through want of chances.
    ‘What was it you took at Oxford, Rona?’ Waterhouse bantered. ‘A first in classics, was it?’
    ‘I took a first in Greats, if that’s what you mean. And they taught me logic too, John. Not that I need logic to know that you’re not nearly so stupid as you pretend and that you really think much the same as I do on any subject that matters. But I won’t try to explain why you should think it necessary to make out that you don’t.’
    ‘Do I, though?’ Waterhouse took his pipe from his mouth and rummaged in its interior with a match stalk. ‘No, I’m not so sure about that. I’m afraid I’m not ruthless enough. I suppose it takes a woman to be really ruthless.’
    ‘It takes a woman to pretend to be ruthless,’ Harold said. ‘You don’t believe Rona really means what she says, do you?’
    ‘I’m not sure that she doesn’t.’ Waterhouse eyed Rona doubtfully, and she gave him her gentle smile, with its faintest hint of mockery. ‘No, you can call me a sentimentalist if you like, Rona, but I can’t subscribe to your ideals of treating mental patients, for instance, with prussic acid instead of psycho-analysis. Nor, I’m sure, does Glen.’
    Rona glanced at her brother, who was turning through an album of records on top of the grand piano with undisguised boredom.
    ‘Glen’s very conventional, of course,’ she said, her smile deepening. ‘A doctor has to be.’
    Brougham, catching his own name, looked up. ‘Eh? What’s that about me?’ He uncoiled his sinuous length from the extraordinary position into which it had been twisted and sauntered over to our side of the room.
    ‘I can’t make that chap Bax out,’ he went on, ignoring his own question and any possible answer to it. ‘I’ve managed to educate myself up as far as Beethoven, but that seems to be about my limit.’
    ‘Well, this sounds like the end,’ Harold pointed out.
    ‘Thank God,’ said Brougham simply and went back to stop the machine.
    The interruption had broken up our talk, and one by one we followed him back into the main part of the room.
    Frances smiled at me. ‘Well, Glen?’ she said. ‘Did you enjoy it?’
    Brougham yawned. He has appallingly bad manners, but curiously enough one does not seem to mind them in him. Both Frances and I detest bad manners, but we agree that in Glen they play no small part in his undoubted charm.
    ‘I’m afraid Angela’s taken on too much of a job,’ he grinned, ‘trying to cram Bax into me. There doesn’t seem to be room.’
    ‘Oh, but, Glen, you must try. He’s wonderful. Really he is.’ Angela has a plaintive voice, as befits an invalid. It is her custom to appeal for support in any assertion to the nearest person. ‘Isn’t Bax wonderful, Rona?’ she appealed now.
    ‘Well, you know I’m not very musical, Angela,’ Rona said gently. ‘I can’t pretend to understand Bax myself, but if you tell me he’s wonderful I’m quite ready to believe you.’
    ‘Oh, but he is wonderful,’ Angela repeated, and looked helpless.
    As if in response to a cue Waterhouse lumbered over to the couch on which his wife was lying. He had a curious rolling gait, more suited to a sailor than to an electrical engineer.
    ‘Not feeling tired, dear, are you?’ he asked, looking down at her.
    ‘Well, perhaps…a little.’ Angela looked at the rest of us apologetically.
    ‘Come along, Glen,’ said Rona. ‘Time for us to clear out.’
    ‘Douglas,’ said Frances.
    ‘Oh no!’ Angela wailed. ‘Rona, you know I didn’t mean that. You make me feel horrible, breaking things up. It’s terribly early, too. I’ll just slip off, and you can all go on talking. John, give them some drinks and make them stay.’
    ‘Of course