n any way. She was like that; she could see no weak
points in anything she took up; it came from being vain, and not having a
brain. She said one of the things angry people say, instead of discussing
the subject rationally.

"I don't suppose the amount of it you've been able to read _would_ seem
difficult. If you came to anything difficult you'd probably stop, you
see. Anyhow, if it seems to you so foolish why do you want to be
analysed?"

"Oh, one may as well try things. I've no doubt there's something in it
besides the nonsense."

Mrs. Hilary spoke jauntily, with hungry, unquiet, seeking eyes that would
not meet Rosalind's. She was afraid that Rosalind would find out that she
wanted to be cured of being miserable, of being jealous, of having
inordinate passions about so little. Rosalind, in some ways a great
stupid cow, was uncannily clever when it came to being spiteful and
knowing about you the things you didn't want known. It must be horrible
to be psycho-analysed by Rosalind, who had no pity and no reticence. The
things about you would not only be known but spread abroad among all
those whom Rosalind met. A vile, dreadful tongue.

"You wouldn't, I expect, like _me_ to analyse you," said Rosalind. "Not a
course, I mean, but just once, to advise you better whom to go to. It'd
have the advantage, anyhow, that I'd do it free. Anyone else will charge
you three guineas at the least."

"I don't think," said Mrs. Hilary, "that relations--or connections--ought
to do one another. No, I'd better go to someone I don't know, if you'll
give me the name and address."

"I thought you'd probably rather," Rosalind said in her slow, soft, cruel
voice, like a cat's purr. "Well, I'll write down the address for you.
It's Dr. Evans: he'll probably pass you on to someone down at the
seaside, if he considers you a suitable case for treatment."

He would; of course he would. Mrs. Hilary felt no doubt as to that.

Gilbert came in from the British Museum. He looked thin and nervous and
sallow amid all the splendour. He kissed his mother, thinking how queer
and untidy she looked, a stranger and pilgrim in Rosalind's drawing-room.
He too might look there at times a stranger and pilgrim, but at least, if
not voluptuous, he was neat. He glanced proudly and yet ironically from
his mother to his magnificent wife, taking in and understanding the
supra-normal redundancies of her make-up.

"Rosalind," said Mrs. Hilary, knowing that it would