“Does anyone have a more selfish son?” she cried. “Really, Philip, one would think you were afraid I intended to blacken your character.” This, of course, was precisely what she would have done, by going into his inconstancy, his hypersensitivity about his back, his egotism, his carelessness, by exhibiting his ugly baby pictures, by telling damning anecdotes, by resurrecting instances of his devotion to herself and attempting, in the light of the latter, to make Hopestill realize that she must play second fiddle to her if the marriage ever came off.

The conversation, passing beyond the skirmish of wits, became general. Philip, casting a studious glance upon me who did not participate, said, “You must have given Sonie a run for her money today, Hope. She’s got the wind knocked out of her.”

“Oh, on the contrary,” she replied with a laugh, “she gave me a run for mine.” And she began to praise my horsemanship and to deplore my horse, inventing a fantastically untrue account of my bold jumping and running which I was too dumfounded to deny. Old Mrs. McAllister patted my hand, said she could tell by my appearance that I could manage any horse, called upon her grandson to agree that I was the very picture of a healthy athlete, hoping to embarrass Hopestill who, though she was sound as a dollar, looked frail, and had chosen, instead of normal pleasures, the ugly affectation of the bluestocking. “I think you’re very wise, Sonia,” she said. “Why on earth our Hopestill wants to waste her youth and ruin her complexion investigating people’s nightmares I will never understand. And as for ‘repressions’ and ‘sublimations’ and so on, I think the least said about them the better. Goodness only knows we have serpents enough in our gardens without importing any more.”

The ìciness of Hopestill’s smile was lost on her half blind hostess as she replied, “But, Mrs. McAllister, all of us are not so fortunate as you. My own garden was swarming with serpents when I first stepped into it.”

Philip’s mother, leaning toward her, cried, “You clever thing! You know how to get the better of my mother! Tell me, Hope, what sort of thing do you do?”

“Oh, I . . .” For the first time since I had known her, I saw Hopestill hesitate. Momentarily she averted her eyes as she jerkily returned her teacup to its saucer. Then, with a smile, she explained, “I’m not studying formally, you see, but with a psychiatrist. I see his patients and study their case histories and so on.”

“What kind of patients are they, Hope?” pursued the woman. “I’m really ever so interested.”

“Well, my man is rather fashionable and most of his patients are idle women who don’t like their husbands for one reason or another or else don’t have husbands and think they’ll go off the deep end if they keep on living alone.”

Old Mrs. McAllister snorted gustily. “And what’s the cure, eh?”