Elizabeth flared up. "You really are overdoing it a bit, Joan; it's
almost hysterical! Even Doctor Thomas must know his trade well enough to
suspect tubercle if there were any."
"I know, but I can't believe in him. Surely you think Milly's looking
terribly ill?"
"I think she looks very fagged, but I'm not prepared to know better than
the doctor."
They argued for an hour. Elizabeth was exasperated. Why would Joan
persist in taking the most gloomy view of everything?
"It's a good excuse for your staying on here," she said bitterly.
Joan looked at her.
"Yes, I mean that," said Elizabeth. "You find Milly's illness a
ready-made excuse."
"I ought to get angry with you, Elizabeth, but I won't let myself. Do
you seriously think that I can leave her? What about Mother?"
"Yes, what about your mother? Why can't she keep Milly company for a
while; can't they look after each other? Will you never consider
yourself or me?"
"Oh, what's the good; you don't understand. You know how helpless Mother
is, and then there's Milly. I've promised her not to leave her."
"Oh, yes, I do understand; I understand only too well, Joan. You're
twenty-three already, and we're no nearer Cambridge than we were; what I
want to know is how long is this going on?"
Joan was silent.
"Oh, my dear!" said Elizabeth, stretching out her hand. "Won't you come
now?"