“I shall start in three days,” said Mrs. Hilary, becoming tragically resolute.  “I must tell Mr. Cradock to-morrow.”

“That young man?  Must he know about Nan’s affairs, my dear?”

“I have to tell him everything, mother.  It’s part of the course.  He is as secret as the grave.”

Grandmama knew that Emily, less secret than the grave, would have to ease herself of the sad tale to someone or other in the course of the next day, and supposed that it had better be to Mr. Cradock, who seemed to be a kind of hybrid of doctor and clergyman, and so presumably was more discreet than an ordinary human being.  Emily must tell.  Emily always would.  That was why she enjoyed this foolish psycho-analysis business so much.

At the very thought of it a gleam had brightened Mrs. Hilary’s eyes, and her rigid, tense pose had relaxed.  Oh the comfort of telling Mr. Cradock!  Even if he did tell her how it was all in the course of nature, at least he would sympathise with her trouble about it, and her annoyance with Grandmama.  And he would tell her how best to deal with Nan when she got to her.  Nan’s was the sort of case that Mr. Cradock really did understand.  Any situation between the sexes—­he was all over it.  Psycho-analysts adored sex; they made an idol of it.  They communed with it, as devotees with their God.  They couldn’t really enjoy, with their whole minds, anything else, Mrs. Hilary sometimes vaguely felt.  But as, like the gods of the other devotees, it was to them immanent, everywhere and in everything; they could be always happy.  If they went up into heaven it was there; if they fled down into hell it was there also.  Once, when Mrs. Hilary had tentatively suggested that Freud, for instance, over-stated its importance, Mr. Cradock had said firmly “It is impossible to do that,” which settled it once and for all.

Mrs. Hilary stood up.  Her exalted, tragic mood clothed her like a flowing garment.

“I shall write to Cook,” she said.  “Also to Nan, to tell her I am coming.”

Grandmama, after a moment’s silence, seemed to gather herself together for a final effort.

“Emily, my child.  Is your mind set to do this?”

“Absolutely, mother.  Absolutely and entirely.”

“Shall I tell you what I think?  No, you don’t want to hear it, but you drive me to it....  If you go to that foolish, reckless child and attempt to interfere with her, or even to question her, you will run the risk, if she is innocent, of driving her into what you are trying to prevent.  If she is already committed to it, you run the risk of shutting the door against her return.  In either case you will alienate her from yourself:  that is the least of the risks you run, though the most certain....  That is all.  I can say no more.  But I ask you, my dear....  I beg you, for the child’s sake and your own ... to write neither to Cook nor to Nan.”

Grandmama’s breath came rather fast and heavily; her heart was troubling her; emotion and effort were not good for it.