'No. I might have spoken to dad--but mother's different. What d'you
mean?'

'And you've never talked to your mother either, Mr. Conroy?'

'Not till I took Najdolene. Then I told her it was my heart. There's no
need to say anything, now that I'm practically over it, is there?'

'Not if it doesn't come back, but--' She beckoned with a stumpy,
triumphant linger that drew their heads close together. 'You know I
always go in and read a chapter to mother at tea, child.'

'I know you do. You're an angel,' Miss Henschil patted the blue
shoulder next her. 'Mother's Church of England now,' she explained. 'But
she'll have her Bible with her pikelets at tea every night like the
Skinners.'

'It was Naaman and Gehazi last Tuesday that gave me a clue. I said I'd
never seen a case of leprosy, and your mother said she'd seen too many.'

'Where? She never told me,' Miss Henschil began.

'A few months before you were born--on her trip to Australia--at Mola or
Molo something or other. It took me three evenings to get it all out.'

'Ay--mother's suspicious of questions,' said Miss Henschil to Conroy.
'She'll lock the door of every room she's in, if it's but for five
minutes. She was a Tackberry from Jarrow way, yo' see.'