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a shadow darkened my plate, and I turned my head to see Megan standing in the French window.
    â€œOh,” said her mother. “Here’s Megan.”
    Her voice held a faintly surprised note, as though she had forgotten that Megan existed.
    The girl came in and shook hands, awkwardly and without any grace.
    â€œI’m afraid I forgot about your tea, dear,” said Mrs. Symmington. “Miss Holland and the boys took theirs out with them, so there’s no nursery tea today. I forgot you weren’t with them.”
    Megan nodded.
    â€œThat’s all right. I’ll go to the kitchen.”
    She slouched out of the room. She was untidily dressed as usual and there were potatoes in both heels.
    Mrs. Symmington said with a little apologetic laugh:
    â€œMy poor Megan. She’s just at that awkward age, you know. Girls are always shy and awkward when they’ve just left school before they’re properly grown up.”
    I saw Joanna’s fair head jerk backwards in what I knew to be a warlike gesture.
    â€œBut Megan’s twenty, isn’t she?” she said.
    â€œOh, yes, yes. She is. But of course she’s very young for her age. Quite a child still. It’s so nice, I think, when girls don’t grow up too quickly.” She laughed again. “I expect all mothers want their children to remain babies.”
    â€œI can’t think why,” said Joanna. “After all, it would be a bit awkward if one had a child who remained mentally six while his body grew up.”
    â€œOh, you mustn’t take things so literally, Miss Burton,” said Mrs. Symmington.
    It occurred to me at that moment that I did not much care for Mrs. Symmington. That anaemic, slighted, faded prettiness concealed, I thought, a selfish and grasping nature. She said, and I disliked her a little more still:
    â€œMy poor Megan. She’s rather a difficult child, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to find something for her to do—I believe there are several things one can learn by correspondence. Designing and dressmaking—or she might try and learn shorthand and typing.”
    The red glint was still in Joanna’s eye. She said as we sat down again at the bridge table:
    â€œI suppose she’ll be going to parties and all that sort of thing. Are you going to give a dance for her?”
    â€œA dance?” Mrs. Symmington seemed surprised and amused. “Oh, no, we don’t do things like that down here.”
    â€œI see. Just tennis parties and things like that.”
    â€œOur tennis court has not been played on for years. Neither Richard nor I play. I suppose, later, when the boys grow up—Oh,Megan will find plenty to do. She’s quite happy just pottering about, you know. Let me see, did I deal? Two No Trumps.”
    As we drove home, Joanna said with a vicious pressure on the accelerator pedal that made the car leap forward:
    â€œI feel awfully sorry for that girl.”
    â€œMegan?”
    â€œYes. Her mother doesn’t like her.”
    â€œOh, come now, Joanna, it’s not as bad as that.”
    â€œYes, 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.”
    â€œYes,” I said, “I think she is.”
    I was silent a moment.
    Joanna suddenly laughed mischievously.
    â€œBad luck for you about the governess.”
    â€œI don’t know what you mean,” I said with dignity.
    â€œNonsense. Masculine chagrin was written on your face every time you looked at her. I agree with you. It is a waste.”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œBut I’m delighted, all the same. It’s the first sign of reviving life. I was