"This is Mama," said Winifred, accenting the second syllable strongly and contriving at once to be vivacious and reverent. Mama inclined her head toward me without the faintest smile, welcoming or otherwise, placing her hand as she did so regally upon the teacozy, as upon a royal orb. "Mrs Thario," I said, "I am delighted to meet you." Mama found this beneath her condescension. "And this is Constance, the general's firstborn," introduced Winifred, still retaining her liveliness despite Mama's low temperature. Constance was the perfect connectinglink between Winifred and her mother, not yet gray but soon to be so, without Winifred's animation, but with the same voluntary smile showing the same white teeth. She rose and shook my hand as she might have shaken a naughty puppy, with a vigorous sidewise jerk, disengaging the clasp quickly. "And this," announced Winifred brightly, "is Pauline." To say that Pauline Thario was beautiful would be like saying Mount Everest is high. In her, the blond hair sparkled like newly threshed straw, the teeth were just as white and even, but they did not seem too large for her mouth, and her complexion was faultless as a cosmetic ad. She was an unbelievably exquisite painting placed in an appropriate frame. And yet ... and yet the painting had a quality of unreality about it, as though it were the delineation of a madonna without child, or of a nun. There was no vigor to her beauty, no touch of the earthiness or of blemish necessary to make the loveliness real and bring it home. She did not offer me her hand, but bowed in a manner only slightly less distant than her mother's. I sat down on the edge of a petitpoint chair, thoroughly illatease. "You must tell us about your pills, Mr Weener," urged Winifred. "Pills?" I asked, at a loss. "Yes, the thingamyjigs youre going to have Joe make for you," explained Constance. Mama made a loud trumpeting noise which so startled me I half rose from my seat. "Damned slacker!" she exclaimed, looking fiercely right over my head. "Now, Mama--bloodpressure," enjoined Pauline in a colorless voice. Mama relapsed into immobility and Winifred went on, quite as if there had been no explosion. "Are you married, Mr Weener?" I said I was not. "Then here's our chance for Pauline," decided Winifred. "Mr Weener, how would you like to marry Pauline?" I could do nothing but smile uncomfortably. Was this the sort of conversation habitually carried on in their circle or were they quite mad? Constance mentioned with apparent irrelevance, "Winifred is so giddy," and Pauline smiled at me understandingly. But Winifred went on, "Weve been trying to marry Pauline off for years, you know. She's wonderful to look at, but she hasnt any sexappeal." Mama snorted, "Damned vulgar thing to have." "Would you like some tea, Mr Weener?" asked Constance.