The path of the guardian (or jailer, as she sometimes put it) was not always plain. The wayfaring woman might easily err therein.
After some severe fatigue, convention or banquet, she might say, "This is the last time. Never let me do this again!"
Thereupon a promise would be exacted and made. The fatigue would pass and be forgotten, and the next occasion be joyously prepared for.
"You told me not to let you go!" the poor jailer would say.
"Oh, I didn't mean it!"
"But you promised!"
"That was two weeks ago. Two weeks is a long time for me to keep a promise!"
If the jailer still persisted, she played her last card and took the trick.
"I can't talk about it. You tire my head!"
Now and then Greek met Greek. One snowy afternoon she encountered the resident granddaughter, cloaked and hooded, preparing to brave the storm.