“Your daughter-in-law,” said Grandmama, without excitement, “is an exceedingly vulgar young woman.”

“Vulgar?  Rosalind?  But of course....  Only that doesn’t affect Nan....”

“Your daughter-in-law,” Grandmama added, “is also a very notorious liar.”

“A liar ... oh yes, yes, yes....  But this time it’s true.  Oh I feel, I know, it’s true.  Nan would.  That Stephen Lumley—­he’s been hanging about her for ages. ...  Oh yes, it’s true what they say.  The very worst....”

Grandmama glanced at her curiously.  The very worst in that direction had become strangely easier of credence by Mrs. Hilary lately.  Grandmama had observed that.  Mr. Cradock’s teaching had not been without its effect.  According to Mr. Cradock, people were usually engaged either in practising the very worst, or in desiring to practise it, or in wishing and dreaming that they had practised it.  It was the nature of mankind, and not in the least reprehensible, though curable.  Thus Mr. Cradock.  Mrs. Hilary had, against her own taste, absorbed part of his teaching, but nothing could ever persuade her that it was not reprehensible:  it quite obviously was.  Also disgusting.  Mr. Cradock might say what he liked.  It was disgusting.  And when the man had a wife....

“It is awful,” said Mrs. Hilary.  “Awful....  It must be stopped.  I shall go to Rome.  At once.”

“That won’t stop it, dear, if it is going on.  It will only irritate the young people.”

“Irritate!  You can use a word like that!  Mother, you don’t realise this ghastly thing.”

“I quite see, my dear, that Nan may be carrying on with this artist.  And very wrong it is, if so.  All I say is that your going to Rome won’t stop it.  You know that you and Nan don’t always get on very smoothly.  You rub each other up....  It would be far better if someone else went.  Neville, say.”

“Neville is ill.”  Mrs. Hilary shut her lips tightly on that.  She was glad Neville was ill; she had always hated (she could not help it) the devotion between Neville and Nan.  Nan, in her tempestuous childhood, flaring with rage against her mother, or sullen, spiteful and perverse, long before she could have put into words the qualities in Mrs. Hilary which made her like that, had always gone to Neville, nine years older, to be soothed and restored to good temper.  Neville had reprimanded the little naughty sister, had told her she must be “decent to mother—­feel decent if you can, behave decent in any case,” was the way she had put it.  It was Neville who had heard Nan’s confidences and helped her out of scrapes in childhood, schoolgirlhood and ever since.  This was very bitter to Mrs. Hilary.  She was jealous of both of them; jealous that so much of Neville’s love should go elsewhere than to her, jealous that Nan, who gave her nothing except generous and extravagant gifts and occasional, spasmodic, remorseful efforts at affection and gentleness, should to Neville give all.