"Writing's just a thing to do, as I see it," Neville went on. "A job, like another. One must _have_ a job, you know. Not for the money, but for the job's sake. And Nan enjoys it. But I daresay she'd enjoy marriage too." "Does she love this man?" "I don't know. I shouldn't be surprised. She hasn't told me so." "Probably she doesn't, as he's single. Nan's so perverse. She will love the wrong men, always." "You shouldn't believe all Rosalind tells you, mother. Rosalind has a too vivid fancy and a scandalous tongue." Mrs. Hilary coloured a little. She did not like Neville to think that she had been letting Rosalind gossip to her about Nan. "You know perfectly well, Neville, that I never trust a word Rosalind says. I suppose I needn't rely on my daughter-in-law for news about my own daughter's affairs. I can see things for myself. You can't deny that Nan _has_ had compromising affairs with married men." "Compromising." Neville turned over the word, thoughtfully and fastidiously. "Funny word, mother. I'm not sure I know what it means. But I don't think anything ever compromises Nan; she's too free for that.... Well, let's marry her off to Barry Briscoe. It will be a quaint menage, but I daresay they'd pull it off. Barry's delightful. I should think even Nan could live with him." "He writes books about education, doesn't he? Education and democracy." "Well, he does. But there's always something, after all, against all of us. And it might be worse. It might be poetry or fiction or psycho-analysis." Neville said psycho-analysis in order to start another hare and take her mother's attention off Nan's marriage before the marriage became crystallised out of all being. But Mrs. Hilary for the first time (for usually she was reliable) did not rise. She looked thoughtful, even a shade embarrassed, and said vaguely, "Oh, people must write, of course. If it isn't one thing it will be another." After a moment she added, "This psycho-analysis, Neville," saying the word with distaste indeed, but so much more calmly than usual that Neville looked at her in surprise. "This psycho-analysis. I suppose it does make wonderful cures, doesn't it, when all is said?" "Cures--oh yes, wonderful cures. Shell-shock, insomnia, nervous depression, lumbago, suicidal mania, family life--anything." Neville's attention was straying to Grandmama, who was coming slowly towards them down the path, leaning on her stick, so she did not see Mrs. Hilary's curious, lit eagerness. "But how _can_ they cure all those things just by talking indecently about sex?" "Oh mother, they don't. You're so crude, darling. You've got hold of only one tiny part of it--the part practised by Austrian professors on Viennese degenerates. Many of the doctors are really sane and brilliant. I know of cases...." "Well," said Mrs. Hilary, quickly and rather crossly, "I can't talk about it before Grandmama."