“I wonder,” she said, “if I took too harsh a view towards Claude and Eustace.”
“You couldn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I—er—mean it would be so unlike you to be harsh to anybody, Aunt Agatha.” And not bad, either. I mean, quick—like that—without thinking. It pleased the old relative, and she looked at me with slightly less loathing than she usually does.
“It is nice of you to say that, Bertie, but what I was thinking was, are they safe ?”
“Are they what ?”
It seemed such a rummy adjective to apply to the twins, they being about as innocuous as a couple of sprightly young tarantulas.
“Do you think all is well with them?”
“How do you mean?”
Aunt Agatha eyed me almost wistfully.
“Has it ever occurred to you, Bertie,” she said, “that your Uncle George may be psychic?”
She seemed to me to be changing the subject.
“Psychic?”
“Do you think it is possible that he could see things not visible to the normal eye?”