“I think it’s horrible! You’ve only done it for your own satisfaction . . . to give you a sense of power. It’s absolute sadism.”

Gerald Vanstead heard his wife’s voice rise in pitch, get shriller and uglier with every word she uttered, and his own nerves seemed to jangle in protest. Why must Meriel shout like that? . . . and was her accent getting worse every day?

In complete contrast came his sister’s voice. Judith Vanstead had always had a beautiful voice—their father had often laughingly called her Cordelia.

“Would it be a good idea to look up sadism in the dictionary, Meriel?” asked Judith. “I don’t think you really understand what it implies. Anyway, never mind. I’m sorry you’re upset, but I had to tell you exactly how things are. It’s right that you should know. Waterson is one of the greatest surgeons living and he wouldn’t suggest operating if he didn’t think it worth while. It may give father another twelve months—he will see the spring again. . . .”

She broke off, and turned to her brother. “I must go up to Father again now, Gerald. I’ll leave you to talk to Meriel; you’ll be better at explaining than I am.”