“I fail to see the joke,” Sir John said. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. He was the social order; he was law and wisdom. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. With a swirl of her floral chintz petticoats, she placed herself in the capacious window seat, accepted the glass Gerald handed to her, and smiled mischievously up at him. Once a sick sailor drew three pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and sail—square-rigger, schooner, and sloop. He closed the door. “Here we are, living in the same suburb,” he began. One of these was a classification of women into women who are and women who are not hostile to men. For a moment or two Gerald stood in the total silence of amazement, his pistol up and pointing, aware that Hilary was likewise stunned, standing with halfdrawn sword.
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