Anthony’s manner did not encourage confidence, and he gathered that his own more sinister interpretation would be dismissed with contemptuous incredulity.  Anthony was under his wife’s thumb and Frances had been completely bamboozled by her dearest friend.  Still, when once their eyes were opened, he reckoned on the support of Anthony and Frances.  It was inconceivable, that, faced with a public scandal, his brother and his sister-in-law would side with Vera.

It was a game where Bartie apparently held all the cards.  And his trump card was Veronica.

He was not going to keep Veronica without Vera.  That had been tacitly understood between them long ago.  If Vera went to Cameron she could not take Veronica with her without openly confirming Bartie’s worst suspicion.

And yet all these things, so inconceivable to Bartie, happened.  When it came to the stabbing point the courage of Vera’s emotions was such that she defied her husband and his ultimatum, and went to Cameron.  By that time Ferdie was so ill that she would have been ashamed of herself if she had not gone.  And though Anthony’s house was not open to the unhappy lovers, Frances and Anthony had taken Veronica.

Grannie and Auntie Louie and Auntie Emmeline and Auntie Edie came over to West End House when they heard that it had been decided.  It was time, they said, that somebody should protest, that somebody should advise Frances for her own good and for the good of her children.

They had always detested and distrusted Vera Harrison; they had always known what would happen.  The wonder was it had not happened before.  But why Frances should make it easy for her, why Frances should shoulder Vera Harrison’s responsibilities, and burden herself with that child, and why Anthony should give his consent to such a proceeding, was more than they could imagine.

Once Frances had stood up for the three Aunties, against Grannie; now Grannie and the three Aunties were united against Frances.

“Frances, you’re a foolish woman.”

“My folly is my own affair and Anthony’s.”

“You’ll have to pay for it some day.”

“You might have thought of your own children first.”

“I did.  I thought, How would I like them to be forsaken like poor Ronny?”

“You should have thought of the boys.  Michael’s growing up; so is Nicky.”

“Nicky is fifteen; Ronny is eleven, if you call that growing up.”

“That’s all very well, but when Nicky is twenty-one and Ronny is seventeen what are you going to do?”

“I’m not going to turn Ronny out of doors for fear Nicky should fall in love with her, if that’s what you mean.”

“It is what I mean, now you’ve mentioned it.”

“He’s less likely to fall in love with her if I bring them up as brother and sister.”

“You might think of Anthony.  Bartholomew’s wife leaves him for another man, and you aid and abet her by taking her child, relieving her of her one responsibility.”