THE BONDAGE OF LOVE by Yelena Kopylova

the time to have some sense knocked into you."
    "George," his wife's voice was slightly admonishing, 'don't you think you've had your quota for tonight? "
    "Oh, woman!" He turned from her to Fiona, now asking abruptly, "Where's your son at school? What's he going in for?"
    Her voice was quiet as she said, "He attends the Royal Grammar, but he's hoping to go to London to start on a medical career. That's if he passes his exams, of course, and they're rather stiff."
    "All exams are stiff, dreadful."
    They were all looking at Elsa Ferndale again where she sat sipping at a liqueur.
    "I don't know how they expect the young to have the brains to answer all the questions that are put to them. I think some parents expect too much of their children. And you expect too much of our children, George. I've said this to you before."
    "Yes, dear, and undoubtedly you'll say it to me again."
    Fiona had the tact not to ask which school their son attended; but Bill wasn't possessed of such reticence, and so he said, "Where does your boy go to, Mrs. Ferndale?"
    "St. Augustine's Academy. It's a very good school, highly thought of."
    Yes, Fiona thought, for those who can afford to pay. It was known as a
    crammer school. Yet she recalled Mark saying there was a boy in St.
    Augustine's who was cramming in the same subjects as he himself was studying, and that he too wanted to study medicine.
    "Would you like to dance, Mrs. Bailey? I think my legs will still carry me round. I said my legs, but I won't account for my feet. So, if you find yourself suddenly on the floor, you have been warned. Your case will come up next week." He was smiling widely at her now and she at him. And Bill watched his wife take the floor with the big noise of the evening, and he felt there wasn't anyone in that hall to touch her.
    He had insisted on her buying a new gown, and it was a beautiful thing; soft apple-green velvet. It had a full skirt and a low bodice and had looked as plain as a pikestaff before she put it on. But as she had said, it was the cut that made the dress. That might be so, but she was cut out for it. She looked beautiful, and he asked himself now, as George Ferndale had asked of himself a short while
    before, how on earth had he come to win her? He could see that Ferndale was impressed with her. And it wasn't only Ferndale who had been impressed with her tonight. She'd had requests to dance from three men who weren't of their table, but were apparently known to the company. All horsemen, he surmised.
    He started slightly, then said, "What was that you said, Mrs. Ferndale?"
    "I was saying, Mr. Bailey, that some men are too hard on their children.
    They forget they were young once themselves. And men always want their sons to follow in their footsteps, don't you think?"
    "Oh, I don't know so much about that, Mrs. Ferndale, because if I'd had a son, my own son, I would have wished him to take up whatever profession he liked, so long as he was going to be happy in it."
    The dance finished, George Ferndale led Fiona back to their table.
    They were both laughing and when they were seated, George Ferndale leant across to Bill and said, "Your wife's just been telling me your daughter is a Down's Syndrome child."
    At this Bill cast a quick glance at Fiona and she smiled at him. Then he looked back at George Ferndale, who was now saying, "My sister has a Down's Syndrome daughter, well, she is my niece. And as your wife said, such a child brings happiness into a home, because you'll never find a happier home than our Lorraine's. Betsy is now fifteen. She is a lovely child. The
    strange thing about it. Bailey, is that these children have gifts. Do you think along those lines?"
    Bill, now full of enthusiasm, said, "Yes. Yes, I do indeed. Our Angela can sculpt practically any animal she looks at, in plasticine, of course."
    "No!"
    "Yes. Yes."
    "Well, Betsy now, she cannot talk as distinctly as one would wish, but she can sing. And when she sings, really it's