"You did us all the good there was done," Sylvia said. "What with Miss Lampeter always drugged to the world, and all the French mistresses as wicked as hell."
"I've heard you say all this before," Mrs. Satterthwaite said. "But it was supposed to be the best finishing school in England. I know it cost enough!"
"Well, say it was we who were a rotten lot," Sylvia concluded; and then to the Father: "We were a lot of rotters, weren't we?"
The priest answered:
"I don't know. I don't suppose you were—or are—any worse than your mother or grandmother, or the patricianesses of Rome or the worshippers of Ashtaroth. It seems we have to have a governing class and governing classes are subject to special temptations."
"Who's Ashtaroth?" Sylvia asked. "Astarte?" and then: "Now, Father, after your experiences would you say the factory girls of Liverpool, or any other slum, are any better women than us that you used to look after?"
"Astarte Syriaca," the Father said, "was a very powerful devil. There's some that hold she's not dead yet. I don't know that I do myself."
"Well, I've done with her," Sylvia said.
The Father nodded:
"You've had dealings with Mrs. Profumo?" he asked. "And that loathsome fellow. . . . What's his name?"