Mrs. Blane flushed darkly. "There is not and never was any insanity in our family, Oswald. Rupert's a little eccentric, perhaps, but good gracious me, most people are nowadays!"
The bishop stuck his hands in his pockets and gave a very good imitation of a schoolboy whistle.
Mrs. Blane turned to Joan: "He was dropped on his head when he was a baby, I believe, and undoubtedly that stopped his development, poor fellow. But to say that he's mad is perfectly ridiculous; he's a little childish, that's all. I can't myself see that he's very much odder than many other people are since the war. In any case, my dear, it would be a very comfortable home; you would have the entire management of everything. There are excellent old servants and the house is large and very convenient. If I remember rightly there's a charming garden. Not to put too fine a point on it, Joan, it seems to me that you have no alternative to accepting some post of this kind as you don't feel fitted to undertake more skilled work. And of course I should feel much happier about you if I knew that you were living with a member of the family."
Joan looked into the fire. "Where does he live?" she inquired.
Mrs. Blane fished in her bag. "Ah, here it is. I've written the address down for you, in case you should need it."
Joan took the slip of paper. "The Pines, Seaview Avenue, Blintcombe, Sussex," she read.
"I've already written to Doctor Campbell about you," said Mrs. Blane, with a slight note of nervousness in her voice. She paused, but as Joan made no reply she went on hastily: "I got his answer only this morning, and it was most satisfactory; he says he'll keep the post open for you for a fortnight."
Joan looked up. "Yes, I see; thank you, Aunt Ann, it's very good of you. I may think it over for a fortnight, you say?"
"Yes, Joan, but don't lose it. A hundred a year is not picked up under gooseberry bushes, remember."
"He's mad, mad, mad!" murmured the bishop in a monotonous undertone, "and occasionally he's very unmanageable."