"You've had dealings with Mrs. Profumo?" he asked. "And that loathsome fellow. . . . What's his name?" "Does it shock you?" Sylvia asked. "I'll admit it was a bit thick. . . . But I've done with it. I prefer to pin my faith to Mrs. Vanderdecken. And, of course, Freud." The priest nodded his head and said: "Of course! Of course. . . ." But Mrs. Satterthwaite exclaimed, with sudden energy: "Sylvia Tietjens, I don't care what you do or what you read, but if you ever speak another word to that woman, you never do to me!" Sylvia stretched herself on her sofa. She opened her brown eyes wide and let the lids slowly drop again. "I've said once," she said, "that I don't like to hear my friends miscalled. Eunice Vanderdecken is a bitterly misjudged woman. She's a real good pal." "She's a Russian spy," Mrs. Satterthwaite said. "Russian grandmother," Sylvia answered. "And if she is, who cares? She's welcome for me. . . . Listen now, you two. I said to myself when I came in: 'I daresay I've given them both a rotten time.' I know you're both more nuts on me than I deserve. And I said I'd sit and listen to all the pi-jaw you wanted to give me if I sat till dawn. And I will. As a return. But I'd rather you let my friends alone." Both the elder people were silent. There came from the shuttered windows of the dark room a low, scratching rustle. "You hear!" the priest said to Mrs. Satterthwaite. "It's the branches," Mrs. Satterthwaite answered. The Father answered: "There's no tree within ten yards! Try bats as an explanation." "I've said I wish you wouldn't, once," Mrs. Satterthwaite shivered. Sylvia said: "I don't know what you two are talking about. It sounds like superstition. Mother's rotten with it." "I don't say that it's devils trying to get in," the Father said. "But it's just as well to remember that devils _are_ always trying to get in. And there are especial spots. These deep forests are noted among others." He suddenly turned his back and pointed at the shadowy wall. "Who," he asked, "but a savage possessed by a devil could have conceived of _that_ as a decoration?" He was pointing at a life-sized, coarsely daubed picture of a wild boar dying, its throat cut, and gouts of scarlet blood. Other agonies of animals went away into all the shadows. "_Sport!_" he hissed. "It's devilry!" "That's perhaps true," Sylvia said. Mrs. Satterthwaite was crossing herself with great rapidity. The silence remained. Sylvia said: "Then if you're both done talking I'll say what I have to say. To begin with . . ." She stopped and sat rather erect, listening to the rustling from the shutters.