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right. Dear Robin will make such a very good husband.’
    â€˜Just how did she confess?’ Although all this belonged, surely, to the larger lunacy, Carson felt that a little probing into it would he only prudent. ‘What were her exact words?’
    â€˜She said, “I shall look forward to meeting your son again.” Just like that.’
    At this – at least metaphorically – Carson breathed more freely. Then he suddenly frowned.
    â€˜Again?’ he said. ‘You’re sure she said again ?’
    â€˜But of course, dear. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?’
    â€˜I don’t see any point at all.’ Carson made to pour the vodka for a second Bloody Mary, but then thought better of it. He also thought better of continuing to betray impatience. ‘But, of course,’ he said, ‘I’m terribly interested, darling. So tell me about your whole talk with Mary Watling. Right from the start.’
    â€˜It was because she was standing in for her mother at the meeting about the bazaar. Such a nice girl, and so willing. We came away together, and were just passing the church when I realized the truth. Maryland, you see.’
    â€˜Maryland?’
    â€˜Robin was there for ever so long a time. Maryland, Mary Watling. You see how the truth came to me in a flash.’
    Carson was silent. He didn’t know that his wife had produced – and for the first time – a classical symptom of real madness. But he did realize that here, all-obscurely, was possibly a crisis on his doorstep.
    â€˜Well,’ he said, ‘then what? You broached the thing – is that right?’
    â€˜I said, “I’m so glad about Robin”. Mary asked, “Is he coming home?” You see, I’ve naturally mentioned him to her before.’
    â€˜Naturally. And then?’
    â€˜I said, “Yes, of course. But what I’m really so glad about is Robin and you. Carl has always hoped that his son would marry.” Mary seemed surprised. I think she was upset. She said something like, “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand you.”’
    â€˜Did she, indeed? Has she ever been in America?’
    â€˜Oh, yes – I knew that. She was visiting friends in Washington last year. You can ask her.’
    â€˜I don’t think I’m likely to do anything of the kind.’
    â€˜Is Maryland in Washington, dear?’
    â€˜It isn’t quite like that. But go on.’
    â€˜That’s about all, really. Mary didn’t seem anxious to announce the engagement, and I felt that perhaps I’d been tactless about it. Then she did say that about how she’d be glad to meet my son again. And then she rather hurried away.’
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    No doubt other people hurried away from Cynthia Carson from time to time – for example, at parties when her conversation became too perplexing to cope with. And her husband himself hurried away now. He gulped a second drink, after all, muttered something about having letters to write before dinner, slipped out of doors, and lit a cigar.
    What, in heaven’s name, was to be made of this development? What was the truth about it, if any truth there was, and where did Cynthia’s imaginings begin? But was it a development? Was there any need to treat it as other than his wife’s quite familiar nonsense? He saw that the answer to both these questions was, unfortunately, ‘Yes’. The odd thing about the Robin business hitherto – he had to remind himself – was that Cynthia had always been so rationally persuasive about it. To what was, in fact, a tissue of untruths she customarily gave – and seemingly without effort – a convincing garment of commonplace family fact. People mightn’t particularly attend to her as she chattered about her son, but neither did they ever suspect that it was a pack of lies. It was unmemorable chit-chat, but nevertheless it had built up over