Mrs. Hilary began to read the letter in the tone used by well-bred women when they would, if in a slightly lower social stratum, say “Fancy that now!  Did you ever, the brazen hussy!” Grandmama listened, cynically disapproving, prepared to be disgusted yet entertained.  On the whole she thoroughly enjoyed letters from Gilbert’s wife.  She settled down comfortably in her chair with her second cup of tea, while Mrs. Hilary read two pages of what Grandmama called “foolish chit-chat.”  Rosalind’s letters were really like the gossipping imbecilities written by Eve of the Tatler, or the other ladies who enliven our shinier-paper weeklies with their bright personal babble.  She did not often waste one of them on her mother-in-law; only when she had something to say which might annoy her.

“Do you hear from Nan?” the third page of the letter began.  “I hear from the Bramertons, who are wintering in Rome—­the Charlie Bramertons, you know, great friends of mine and Gilbert’s (he won a pot of money on the Derby this year and they’ve a dinky flat in some palace out there—­), and they meet Nan about, and she’s always with Stephen Lumley, the painter (rotten painter, if you ask me, but he’s somehow diddled London into admiring him, don’t expect you’ve heard of him down at the seaside).  Well, they’re quite simply always together, and the Brams say that everyone out there says it isn’t in the least an ambiguous case—­no two ways about it.  He doesn’t live with his wife, you know.  You’ll excuse me passing this on to you, but it does seem you ought to know.  I mentioned it to Neville the other day, just before the poor old dear went down with the plague, but you know what Neville is, she always sticks up for Nan and doesn’t care what she does, or what people say.  People are talking; beasts, aren’t they!  But that’s the way of this wicked old world, we all do it.  Gilbert’s quite upset about it, says Nan ought to manage her affairs more quietly.  But after all and between you and me it’s not the first time Nan’s been a Town Topic, is it.

“How’s the psycho going?  Isn’t Cradock rather a priceless pearl?  You’re over head and ears with him by now, of course, we all are.  Psycho wouldn’t do you any good if you weren’t, that’s the truth.  Cradock told me himself once that transference can’t be effected without the patient being a little bit smitten.  Personally I should give up a man patient at once if he didn’t rather like me.  But isn’t it soothing and comforting, and doesn’t it make you feel good all over, like a hot bath when you’re fagged out....”

But Mrs. Hilary didn’t get as far as this.  She stopped at “not the first time Nan’s been a Town Topic....” and dropped the thin mauve sheets onto her lap, and looked at Grandmama, her face queerly tight and flushed, as if she were about to cry.

Grandmama had finished her tea, and had been listening quietly.

Mrs. Hilary said “Oh, my God,” and jerked her head back, quivering like a nervous horse who has had a shock and does not care to conceal it.