As we drove home, Joanna said with a vicious pressure on the accelerator pedal that made the car leap forward:

“I feel awfully sorry for that girl.”

“Megan?”

“Yes. Her mother doesn’t like her.”

“Oh, come now, Joanna, it’s not as bad as that.”

“Yes, it is. Lots of mothers don’t like their children. Megan, I should imagine, is an awkward sort of creature to have about the house. She disturbs the pattern—the Symmington pattern. It’s a complete unit without her—and that’s a most unhappy feeling for a sensitive creature to have—and she is sensitive.”

“Yes,” I said, “I think she is.”

I was silent a moment.

Joanna suddenly laughed mischievously.

“Bad luck for you about the governess.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said with dignity.

“Nonsense. Masculine chagrin was written on your face every time you looked at her. I agree with you. It is a waste.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But I’m delighted, all the same. It’s the first sign of reviving life. I was quite worried about you at the nursing home. You never even looked at that remarkably pretty nurse you had. An attractive minx, too—absolutely God’s gift to a sick man.”

“Your conversation, Joanna, I find definitely low.”

My sister continued without paying the least attention to my remarks.

“So I was much relieved to see you’d still got an eye for a nice bit of skirt. She is a good looker. Funny that the S.A. should have been left out completely. It is odd, you know, Jerry. What is the thing that some women have and others haven’t? What is it makes one woman, even if she only says ‘Foul weather’ so attractive that every man within range wants to come over and talk about the weather with her? I suppose Providence makes a mistake every now and then when sending out the parcel. One Aphrodite face and form, one temperament ditto. And something goes astray and the Aphrodite temperament goes to some little plain-faced creature, and then all the other women go simply mad and say, ‘I can’t think what the men see in her. She isn’t even good-looking!’”

“Have you quite finished, Joanna?”

“Well, you do agree, don’t you?”

I grinned. “I’ll admit to disappointment.”

“And I don’t see who else there is here for you. You’ll have to fall back upon Aimée Griffith.”

“God forbid,” I said.

“She’s quite good-looking, you know.”

“Too much of an Amazon for me.”

“She seems to enjoy her life, all right,” said Joanna. “Absolutely disgustingly hearty, isn’t she? I shouldn’t be at all surprised if she had a cold bath every morning.”

“And what are you going to do for yourself?” I asked.

“Me?”

“Yes. You’ll need a little distraction down here if I know you.”

“Who’s being low now? Besides, you forget Paul.” Joanna heaved up a not very convincing sigh.

“I shan’t forget him nearly as quickly as you will. In about ten days you’ll be saying, ‘Paul? Paul Who? I never knew a Paul.’”