Mrs. Hilary said "Oh, my God," and jerked her head back, quivering like a nervous horse who has had a shock and does not care to conceal it. "Your daughter-in-law," said Grandmama, without excitement, "is an exceedingly vulgar young woman." "Vulgar? Rosalind? But of course.... Only that doesn't affect Nan...." "Your daughter-in-law," Grandmama added, "is also a very notorious liar." "A liar ... oh yes, yes, yes.... But this time it's true. Oh I feel, I know, it's true. Nan _would_. That Stephen Lumley--he's been hanging about her for ages. ... Oh yes, it's true what they say. The very worst...." Grandmama glanced at her curiously. The very worst in that direction had become strangely easier of credence by Mrs. Hilary lately. Grandmama had observed that. Mr. Cradock's teaching had not been without its effect. According to Mr. Cradock, people were usually engaged either in practising the very worst, or in desiring to practise it, or in wishing and dreaming that they had practised it. It was the nature of mankind, and not in the least reprehensible, though curable. Thus Mr. Cradock. Mrs. Hilary had, against her own taste, absorbed part of his teaching, but nothing could ever persuade her that it was not reprehensible: it quite obviously was. Also disgusting. Mr. Cradock might say what he liked. It _was_ disgusting. And when the man had a wife.... "It is awful," said Mrs. Hilary. "Awful.... It must be stopped. I shall go to Rome. At once." "That won't stop it, dear, if it is going on. It will only irritate the young people." "Irritate! You can use a word like that! Mother, you don't realise this ghastly thing." "I quite see, my dear, that Nan may be carrying on with this artist. And very wrong it is, if so. All I say is that your going to Rome won't stop it. You know that you and Nan don't always get on very smoothly. You rub each other up.... It would be far better if someone else went. Neville, say."