prohibit that. If you came to that, what girl or
boy did, in these days, fall into any of the categories which Grandmama
and Grandpapa had known, whether religiously or politically? You might as
well suggest that Gerda and Kay should be Tories or Whigs.

And by this time they had given Mrs. Hilary so much time to recover her
poise that she could join in, and say that Anglo-Catholics were very
ostentatious people, and only gave all that money which they had,
undoubtedly, given at the recent Congress in order to make a splash
and show off.

"Tearing off their jewellery in public like that," said Mrs. Hilary, in
disgust, as she might have said tearing off their chemises, "and gold
watches lying in piles on the collection table, still ticking...." She
felt it was indecent that the watches should have still been ticking; it
made the thing an orgy, like a revival meeting, or some cannibal rite at
which victims were offered up still breathing....

So much for the Anglo-Catholic Congress. The Church Congress was better,
being more decent and in order, though Mrs. Hilary knew that the whole
established Church was wrong.

And so they came to literature, to a review of Mr. Conrad's new novel
and a paragraph about a famous annual literary prize. Grandmama thought
it very nice that young writers should be encouraged by cash prizes.
"Not," as she added, "that there seems any danger of any of them being
discouraged, even without that.... But Nan and Kay and Gerda ought to go
in for it. It would be a nice thing for them to work for."

Then Grandmama, settling down with her pleased old smile to something
which mattered more than the news in the papers, said "And now, dear,
I want to hear all about this friendship of Nan's and this nice young
Mr. Briscoe."

So Neville again had to answer questions about that.

7

Mrs. Hilary, abruptly leaving them, trailed away by herself to the house.
Since she mightn't have Neville to herself for the afternoon she wouldn't
stay and share her. But when she reached the house and looked out at them
through the drawing-room windows, their intimacy stabbed her with a pang
so sharp that she wished she had stayed.

Besides, what was there to do indoors? No novels lay about that looked
readable, only "The Rescue" (and she couldn't read Conrad, he was so
nautical) and a few others which looked deficient in plot and as if they
were trying to be clever. She turned them over restlessly, and put them
d