Ann was sitting cross-legged on a thick rug, drinking Darjeeling tea, and talking to her mother.

“I’m glad M. Dumont has gone back home,” she said, and the Bryd noted that there wasn’t any jump in her blood-pressure when she mentioned Georges’ name⁠—well, not much, anyway.

“He’s very handsome,” said her mother, knitting busily. The old lady’s blood-pressure jumped more than Ann’s.

“But he isn’t as nice as Dale Stevenson.”

“My sakes, Ann, I hope you don’t grow to be an old maid, mooning over that tongue-tied⁠—”

“Mother!” Ann got to her feet. She was long-legged and clean-limbed. The Bryd approved of her. It could imagine by now what she had done to Dale’s mind. It didn’t see how it had slept through it.

So the Bryd took a quick transition back to America and had a look at the mind of the doctor who took care of Marillyn Stevenson. The physician was having lunch with a consultation expert.

“You know,” the doctor said, fingering a Manhattan⁠—“I don’t know what to do about young Dale Stevenson. He’s still trying to cure his sister.”

“Maybe there’s a reason.”

“Sure there’s a reason. He has this feeling of gratitude and loyalty and all. That’s all there is to it, but he’s butting his head against the infinite inertia. He’s spending two thousand a month on that girl⁠—and the worst of it is, she doesn’t want him to. She knows what the score is and she’s resigned to it.”