"Well, I must be going," said Mrs. Benson uncomfortably. "Come up
to-morrow and lunch with me, Joan; half-past one, and I hope you'll come
too, Mrs. Ogden."
Mrs. Ogden sighed. "I never go anywhere since James's death. It may be
morbid of me, but I feel I can't bear to, somehow."
"Oh, but do come, please. We shall be quite alone and it'll do you
good."
The smile that played round Mrs. Ogden's lips was apologetic and sad; it
seemed to repudiate gently the suggestion that anything, however kindly
meant, could do her good, now.
"I think not," she said, pressing Mrs. Benson's hand. "But thank you all
the same for wanting such a dull guest."
Mrs. Benson thought: "A tiresome woman; she's overdoing her bereavement,
poor thing."
The door had scarcely closed on the departing guest when Mrs. Ogden
turned to her daughter. "Is this true?" she demanded, holding out her
hands.
"Is what true?"
"About Elizabeth."
"Oh, for God's sake!" exclaimed Joan gruffly, "don't let's go into all
that. Elizabeth has gone away, isn't that enough? Aren't you satisfied?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Ogden, and her voice was wonderfully firm and
self-possessed. "I am quite satisfied, Joan."
3
At Christmas, Milly came home, a little taller, a little thinner, but
prettier than ever. Joan was glad enough of her sister's brief visit,
for it broke the monotony of the house.
Milly was happy, self-satisfied and friendly. She seemed to look upon
the episode of Mr. Thompson as an escapade of her foolish youth; she had
become very grown-up and experienced. She had a great deal to tell of
her life in London; she shared rooms with a girl called Harriet Nelson,
a singer. Harriet was clever and fat. You had to be fat if you wanted to
be an operatic singer, and Harriet had a marvellous soprano voice. She
had taken the principal part in the College opera last year, but
unfortunately she couldn't act, she just lumbered about and sang
divinely.
Milly said that Harriet was not a bad sort, but rather irritating and
inclined to show off her French. She did speak French pretty well,
having had a French nurse before her family had lost their money. Her
father had been a manager in some big works up north, they had been
quite well off during his lifetime; Harriet was always bragging about
their big house and the fact that she used to hunt. Milly didn't believe
a word of it. Still, Harriet always seemed to have plenty to spend, even
now. Milly complained of shortness of money, one felt it when it came to
providing teas and things.
Then there was Cassy Ryan, another singer who also had a wonderful voice
and was a born actress as well. She was a great darling. Milly would
have liked to chum up with her, her diggings were just above Milly's and
Harriet's. They had high jinks up there occasionally, judging by the row
they made after hours; they had nearly been caught by "Old Scout," the
matron, one night, and had only just had time to empty the coffee down
the lavatory and jump into bed with the cakes. Milly wished that she had
been one of that party, but she didn't know Cassy very well; Harriet
did, but was rather jealous and liked keeping her friends to herself.
Cassy's father had been a butcher; Cassy said that he used to get drunk
and beat her mother; and one day he had got into a frenzy and had thrown
all the carcasses about the shop. One of them had hit Cassy and her lip
had been cut open by a piece of bone; she still had the scar of it. But
it didn't matter about Cassy's father having been a butcher; Cassy
belonged to the aristocracy of brains, that was the only thing that
really counted.
The violin students were rather a dull lot with the exception of Renée
Fabre, who was beautiful. She was Andros's favourite pupil. Milly
thought that he pushed her rather to the detriment of the others; but it
really didn't matter, because Renée would be well off hands when Milly
wished to take the field.
Andros was a great dear; he wore a pig-skin belt instead of braces, and
when he played his waistcoat hitched up and you saw the belt and buckle;
it was very attractive. He had a blue-black beard, which he combed and
brushed, and really beautiful black eyes. He was very Spanish indeed,
they said that he had cried like a baby over his first London fog, he
missed the sunshine so much.
You were allowed to go and see people, and Milly had gone once or twice
to Sunday luncheon with Harriet's family in Brondesbury. Her mother was
a brick; nothing was good enough for Harriet, special dishes were cooked
when it was known that she was bringing friends home.
Milly babbled on day after day; when she wasn't talking about her new
life she was making fun of the old one. Seabourne provided great scope
for her wit; she enjoyed walking up and down the esplanade, ridiculing
the inhabitants.
"What a queer crew, Joan, just look at them! They think they're alive,
too, and that's the funniest thing about them."
Joan tried to enter in and to appear amused and interested, but she was
very heavy of heart. And in addition to this a certain new commonness
about her sister jarred her; Milly had grown second-rate and her sense
of humour was second-rate too. Still, she was happy and, so far as Joan
knew, good, and the other thing mattered so little after all. Mr.
Thompson had left Seabourne, so there was really nothing to worry about
so far as Milly was concerned; she was launched, and if she came to
shipwreck later on it would not be Joan's fault, she had done everything
she could for Milly.
There was no mutual understanding between them; Joan felt no temptation
to take her sister into her confidence. Milly had received the news of
Elizabeth's departure much as she always took things that did not
concern her personally--listening with half an ear, while apparently
thinking of something else. She had sympathized perfunctorily: "Poor old
Joan, what a beastly shame!" But her voice had lacked conviction. After
all, it was not so bad for Joan, who had no talent in particular, it was
when you had the artistic temperament that things went deep with you.
Joan had retired into her shell at this obvious lack of interest, and
the subject was not discussed any more.
Milly seemed to take it for granted that Joan had given up all idea of
Cambridge. "All I ask," she said laughing, "is that you don't grow to
look like them."
"Like who?" Joan asked sharply, nettled by Milly's manner.
"Like the rest of the Seabourne freaks."
"Oh, don't get anxious about me; I may change my mind and go up next
year, after all."
"Not you!" said Milly with disturbing conviction.
On the whole, however, the holidays passed peaceably enough. They
avoided having rows, which was always to the good, and when at last
Milly's trunks were packed and on the fly, Joan felt regretful that her
sister was really going; Milly was rather amusing after all.