Grandfather, for instance. Once when he was telling us about his boyhood in Smyrna, he mentioned, quite casually, that he had stabbed two men. It was some kind of a brawl - there had been some unforgivable insult - I don't know - but it was just a thing that had happened quite naturally.

He'd really practically forgotten about it.

But it was, somehow, such a queer thing to hear about, quite casually, in England."

I nodded.

"That's one kind of ruthlessness," went on Sophia, "and then there was my grandmother.

I only just remember her, but I've heard a good deal about her. I think she might have had the ruthlessness that comes from having no imagination whatever. All those foxhunting forbears - and the old Generals, the shoot 'em down type. Full of rectitude and arrogance, and not a bit afraid of taking responsibility in matters of life and death."

"Isn't that a bit far fetched?"

"Yes, I daresay - but I'm always rather afraid of that type. It's full of rectitude but it is ruthless. And then there's my own mother - she's an actress - she's a darling, but she's got absolutely no sense of proportion.

She's one of those unconscious egoists who can only see things in relation as to how it affects them. That's rather frightening, sometimes, you know. And there's Clemency, Uncle Roger's wife. She's a scientist - she's doing some kind of very important research - she's ruthless too, in a kind of coldblooded impersonal way.

Uncle Roger's the exact opposite - he's the kindest and most lovable person in the world, but he's got a really terrific temper.

Things make his blood boil and then he hardly knows what he's doing. And there's father-"

She made a long pause.

"Father," she said slowly, "is almost too well controlled. You never know what he's thinking. He never shows any emotion at all. It's probably a kind of unconscious self defence against mother's absolute orgies of emotion, but sometimes - it worries me a I little."