Harriet turned to Elizabeth. "And you?" she inquired. "I feel sure you
must do something; you look it."
"I? Oh, I teach Joan."
Milly fidgeted with the tea things; the unexpected arrivals necessitated
more hot water. Her sister's sudden appearance with Elizabeth made her
vaguely uneasy. How on earth had these two managed to escape, and what
did this escape portend? Would it, could it possibly affect her in any
way? And they seemed so calm about it; Joan apparently took it as a
matter of course that she should come up to London for a fortnight's
spree. Milly felt incapable of boiling the kettle again; she poured out
some tepid tea and handed it to her sister.
"Is Mother all alone?" she inquired.
Joan smiled at the implied reproach. "No, we've got a very good maid at
the moment, though goodness only knows how long she'll stay."
Milly was silent; what could she say? Joan's manner was utterly
unconcerned, and in any case, why shouldn't she come up to London for a
bit; everyone else did. She felt a little ashamed of herself; hadn't she
always been the one to rage against the injustice of their existence, to
encourage insubordination? And she owed her own freedom entirely to
Joan; Joan had stuck by her like a brick.
"I'm jolly glad you've come," she said, squeezing her sister's hand.
"Jolly glad!"
2
Through the open window drifted the sound of innumerable pianos, string
instruments and singing; a queer, discordant blur that crystallized
every now and then into stray cadences, shrill arpeggios, or snatches of
operatic airs. The distorted melody of some familiar ballad would now
and then be wafted through the misty atmosphere from the adjacent
College. "My dearest heart," sang a loud young voice, only to be
submerged again under the wave of other sounds that constantly ebbed and
flowed. This queer, almost painful inharmony struck Joan as symbolic. It
awed her, as the immense machinery of some steel works she had once seen
as a child had awed her. Then, she had been frightened to tears as the
great wheels spun and ground, whirring their straining belts. And now as
she listened to this other sound she was somehow reminded of her
childish terror, of the pistons and valves and wheels and belts that had
throbbed and ground and strained. Here was no steel and iron, it is
true, but here was a vast machine none the less. Only its parts were
composed of flesh and blood, of striving, living human beings, and the
sound they produced was such pitiable discord!
Her thoughts were broken into by the consciousness that eyes were upon
her; she turned to meet Harriet Nelson's stare.
Harriet smiled and tapped Rosie's shoulder. "Go and find me a
handkerchief, in my drawer," she ordered.
The girl went with alacrity, and Joan was motioned to the vacant
footstool.