you define objective?" she then enquired.
There was a flurried pause before Laura Glyde intensely
murmured: "In reading you we don't define, we feel."
Osric Dane smiled. "The cerebellum," she remarked, "is
not infrequently the seat of the literary emotions." And
she took a second lump of sugar.
The sting that this remark was vaguely felt to conceal was
almost neutralised by the satisfaction of being addressed
in such technical language.
"Ah, the cerebellum," said Miss Van Vluyck complacently.
"The club took a course in psychology last winter."
"Which psychology?" asked Osric Dane.
There was an agonising pause, during which each member
of the club secretly deplored the distressing inefficiency of
the others. Only Mrs. Roby went on placidly sipping her
chartreuse. At last Mrs. Ballinger said, with an attempt at
a high tone: "Well, really, you know, it was last year that
we took psychology, and this winter we have been so
absorbed in—"
She broke off, nervously trying to recall some of the club's
discussions; but her faculties seemed to be paralysed
by the petrifying stare of Osric Dane. What had the club
been absorbed in? Mrs. Ballinger, with a vague purpose
of gaining time, repeated slowly: "We've been so intense-
ly absorbed in—"
Mrs. Roby put down her liqueur glass and drew near the
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