Joan faced her with bright, desperate eyes. "Elizabeth, you can't go away, I need you too much." "I must go away." "But I tell you I can't let you go!" "Oh, yes, you can, Joan; you need your self-esteem much more than you need me; you'll be able to look upon yourself as a martyr, you see, and that'll console you." "Don't, Elizabeth!" "You'll be able to wallow in a bog of sentimentality and to pat yourself on the head because you're not as other men. _You_ have a sense of duty, whereas I---- You'll feel that you are offering yourself as a sacrifice. Oh, I know it all, and it makes me sick, sick, do you hear? Positively _sick_. And you actually expect me to sympathize. Perhaps you expect me to praise you, to tell you what a really fine fellow I think you, and that I feel honoured to follow in your trail and be permitted to offer you a cup of cold water from time to time. Is that what you want? Well, then, you won't get it from me; you've had too much from me already, Joan, and what are you giving me in return?" Joan said: "Not much, but all I have." Elizabeth laughed. "All you have! Well, it's not enough, not nearly enough; if this is all you have, then you're too poor a thing for me. You see, I too have my ideals, and you don't fulfil them. You're the veriest self-deceiver, Joan! You think you're staying on here because you can't bring yourself to hurt your mother. It's not that at all; it's because you can't bear to hurt yourself in the process. It's yourself you love. Well, I've had enough; it's no good our trying to understand each other, it's better to make the break here and now." Joan held out her hand. "Good-bye, Elizabeth." Elizabeth ignored the hand. "Good-bye," she said, and turned away. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 1 "WHERE'S Elizabeth?" asked Mrs. Ogden curiously. "Have you two quarrelled at last?" Joan did not answer; she went on dusting the drawing-room mechanically; the servant had left and she and her mother were alone. "I must go and put the meat in the oven," she said, leaving the room. She put the joint in the oven and, turning to the sink, began peeling potatoes; then she rinsed them and put them to boil. The breakfast things were waiting to be washed up; an incredible lot of them for two people to have used, Joan thought. She hated the feeling of cold grease on her fingers; she could not find the mop and the skummed water crept up her bare wrists. But much as she detested this washing-up process, she prolonged it intentionally--it was something to do.