Monica was caught in the common trap between parental fondness and exasperation. When people inquired over the tea table what Margaret was going to do now I could see her torn between snapping ‘Nothing’, and explaining that Margaret was resting after the rigours of school before deciding between a career in the diplomatic corps or a suitable marriage. I recognized her dilemma, for Syl, while his problems were different from Margaret’s, caused me similar feelings of irritation. One of the reasons I was seeing fewer and fewer people was that I was sick and tired of being called on to explain why Syl was yet unmarried. ‘Mind your own damned business’ is the response of those who are aggrieved because they have something to hide. I had evolved an air designed to give the impression that I could not understand their question, that to me there was nothing untoward in Syl’s condition. In truth, of course, no one wondered more searchingly about it than I. My sisters-in-law, all of whom had grandchildren, had become particularly unwelcome to me as time passed. From resentment of Syl’s undoubted beauty as a child to envy of his achievement in passing his law exams with honours, they had progressed to a shared schadenfreude at his failure to wed and breed. I frequently had an image, which visited me unbidden, of the backs of girls flouncing down the drive, never to return. Not the least worrying was the speed with which he recovered from these rejections.