"
"People?" he repeated. "Francis Ledsam, for instance--my son-in-law
in posse?"
"Francis Ledsam is one of those few rather brilliant persons who
have contrived to keep sane without becoming a prig," she
remarked.
"You know why?" he reminded her. "Francis Ledsam has been a
tremendous worker. It is work which keeps a man sane.
Brilliancy without the capacity for work drives people to the
madhouse."
"Where we are all going, I suppose," she sighed.
"Not you," he answered. "You have just enough--I don't know what
we moderns call it--soul, shall I say?--to keep you from the
muddy ways."
She rose to her feet and leaned over the rails. Sir Timothy
watched her thoughtfully. Her figure, notwithstanding its
suggestions of delicate maturity, was still as slim as a young
girl's. She was looking across the tree-tops towards an angry
bank of clouds--long, pencil-like streaks of black on a purple
background. Below, in the street, a taxi passed with grinding of
brakes and noisy horn. The rail against which she leaned looked
very flimsy. Sir Timothy stretched out his hand and held her
arm.
"My nerves are going with my old age," he apologised. "That
support seems too fragile."
She did not move. The touch of his fingers grew firmer.
"We have entered upon an allegory," she murmured.
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