“Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. “Goodnight. He saw that she was tense. I applaud your prudence: it is, however, needless. The act was mechanical, a bit of sparring for time: his anger was searching about for a new vent. She pushed. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. He was perhaps forty-five years of age. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth.
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