"This is very interesting." Nan lit another cigarette. "It seems that I've been a boon all round as a town topic—to London, to Rome and to St. Mary's Bay.... Well, what did he advise about me?"
Mrs. Hilary remembered vaguely and in part, but did not think it would be profitable just now to tell Nan.
"We have to be very wise about this," she said, collecting herself. "Very wise and firm. Lawlessness.... I wonder if you remember, Nan, throwing your shoes at my head when you were three?"
"No. But I can quite believe I did. It was the sort of thing I used to do."
"Think back, Nan. What is the first act of naughtiness and disobedience you remember, and what moved you to it?"
Nan, who knew a good deal more about psycho-analysis than Mrs. Hilary did, laughed curtly.
"No good, mother. That won't work on me. I'm not susceptible to the treatment. Too hard-headed. What was Mr. Cradock's next brain-wave?"
"Oh well, if you take it like this, what's the use...."
"None at all. I advise you not to bother yourself. It will only make your headache worse.... Now I think after all this excitement you had better go and lie down, don't you? I'm going out, anyhow."
Then Stephen Lumley knocked at the door and came in. A tall, slouching hollow-chested man of forty, who looked unhappy and yet cynically amused at the world. He had a cough, and unusually bright eyes under overhanging brows.