“‘—constitutes a serious danger,’” his mother was reading from the letter in her hand, “‘as it overhangs the road and the hedge and completely obscures the view from the left as you leave the drive.’ After all, if a real accident should happen, we should feel to blame—”

“I certainly should not feel to blame, unless I was driving the car when it happened,” said George, measuring out gin lavishly. “Alice is late, as usual.”

Hilary was taking it all in from near the door, his always errant fancy thoroughly tickled now by this private view of his amusing family. Since he was no longer one of them, they had become like people in a play, which he observed from an impersonal seat in the front row. His mother he thought really delightful, a bit on the Marie Tempest side. As for George, it was not just his liver that wanted watching, it was his waistline. George was definitely “putting on,” as they say in the country, and needed a trainer. A rough light gray suit did nothing for him, either, and as usual his necktie was a thing to scare the birds with. Hilary, whose dark hair and eyes and lean, boyish build were all from the other side of the family, would have advised his brother not to dress like a prosperous ruddy comedian, and who was his tailor anyhow?

“Man can spend half his life waiting for Alice to turn up,” muttered George, pouring out a spoonful of the White Lady into a glass and tasting it with horrible grimaces because it was not yet iced.

“What’s that got to do with you, old boy?” Hilary wanted to know, and as nothing further was likely to be got from George on the subject he turned to his mother and approached her at the writing-desk, deliberately striving to break through to her consciousness. “Mother. Mother, listen to me. What’s going on here? Is George double-crossing me?”

“I’d hate to know,” remarked George over the cocktails, “what her hairdressing bill comes to for the year.”

“You’ll find out if you’re not careful,” Hilary told him.

“I suppose it’s worth it,” reflected George gloomily, and sampled the White Lady again.

Their mother had laid down the letter and sat watching George with her chin in her hand.

“George,” she said suddenly, as though making up her mind, “you needn’t think I haven’t noticed, because I have.”

“Noticed what, old lady?” said George, bluffing.

“You’re in love with Alice. I’m your mother and I can tell.”

“Ah, here we go,” said Hilary with satisfaction. “How about it, George?”

“You’re much too clever, aren’t you, mum? Besides, she’s always run after Hilary, ever since they were kids.”

“I know,” she agreed gravely. “I never could understand it.”

“Couldn’t you, dear?” said Hilary, with rueful laughter.

George was looking self-conscious and pleased.