"Does it shock you?" Sylvia asked. "I'll admit it was a bit thick. . . . But I've done with it. I prefer to pin my faith to Mrs. Vanderdecken. And, of course, Freud."
The priest nodded his head and said:
"Of course! Of course. . . ."
But Mrs. Satterthwaite exclaimed, with sudden energy:
"Sylvia Tietjens, I don't care what you do or what you read, but if you ever speak another word to that woman, you never do to me!"
Sylvia stretched herself on her sofa. She opened her brown eyes wide and let the lids slowly drop again.
"I've said once," she said, "that I don't like to hear my friends miscalled. Eunice Vanderdecken is a bitterly misjudged woman. She's a real good pal."
"She's a Russian spy," Mrs. Satterthwaite said.
"Russian grandmother," Sylvia answered. "And if she is, who cares? She's welcome for me. . . . Listen now, you two. I said to myself when I came in: 'I daresay I've given them both a rotten time.' I know you're both more nuts on me than I deserve. And I said I'd sit and listen to all the pi-jaw you wanted to give me if I sat till dawn. And I will. As a return. But I'd rather you let my friends alone."
Both the elder people were silent. There came from the shuttered windows of the dark room a low, scratching rustle.