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'Who's Ashtaroth?' Sylvia asked. 'Astarte?' and then: 'Now, Father, after your experiences would you say the factory girls of Liverpool, or any other slum, are any better women than us that you used to look after?'

'Astarte Syriaca,' the Father said, 'was a very powerful devil. There's some that hold she's not dead yet. I don't know that I do myself.'

'Well, I've done with her,' Sylvia said.

The Father nodded:

'You've had dealings with Mrs Profumo?' he asked. 'And that loathsome fellow...What's his name?'

'Does it shock you?' Sylvia asked. 'I'll admit it was a bit thick...But I've done with it. I prefer to pin my faith to Mrs Vanderdecken. And, of course, Freud.'

The priest nodded his head and said:

'Of course! Of course...'

But Mrs Satterthwaite exclaimed, with sudden energy:

'Sylvia Tietjens, I don't care what you do or what you read, but if you ever speak another word to that woman, you never do to me!'

Sylvia stretched herself on her sofa. She opened her brown eyes wide and let the lids slowly drop again.