"I'd be better pleased if there could be an interval," the Father said. "It's what's called bad form."
Sylvia became electrically rigid on her sofa.
"Bad form!" she exclaimed. "You accuse me of bad form."
The Father slightly bowed his head like a man facing a wind.
"I do," he said. "It's disgraceful. It's unnatural. I'd travel a bit at least."
She placed her hand on her long throat.
"I know what you mean," she said, "you want to spare Christopher . . . the humiliation. The . . . the nausea. No doubt he'll feel nauseated. I've reckoned on that. It will give me a little of my own back."
The Father said:
"That's enough, woman. I'll hear no more."
Sylvia said: