"Mother," George said, his face coloring. "She's not making things up!"
"Just a moment, son," Mr. Kenington said crisply. "You don't want to talk to your mother in that tone."
"No, but, my God," George's sister went on. "Imagine. No wires, no loudspeakers, just ... up here." She tapped her forehead again.
"I'm not talking to my mother in any tone at all," George said, disregarding his sister.
"Well, she shouldn't lie," said Mrs. Kenington with conviction.
George stood up. "She is not lying, Mother."
"I forbid you to argue with your mother that way, George," said Mr. Kenington.
"I mean, my God," said George's sister happily. "This is an innovation! Can you imagine? Gistla, or whatever your name is, could your father make his music sometime when we have a dance?"
Gistla's eyes were hurt and she was, George knew, confused. She shook her head.
Mrs. Kenington was blinking accusingly. "Do they teach you to make these things up? Is that what they teach you at home?"