Mrs. Ogden had quickly become the slave of small, pious practices. She went so far as to keep a notebook lest she should forget any of them. They affected the household adversely, they made a lot more work for other people to do. No meat was permitted on Fridays; in fact, they had very little to eat of any kind. It was all absurd and tiresome and pathetic, and obviously bad for the health. The only result of it, so far as Joan could see, was that Mrs. Ogden evinced even less interest than before in domestic concerns, only descending from her vantage ground to find fault. She seemed to be living in another world, while still keeping a watchful eye on her daughter. She found an excellent new grievance in the fact that Joan resisted all efforts to make her attend church regularly; there was no longer Elizabeth to worry about, so she worried about Joan's soul. Joan was patiently stubborn, she refused to confess to Father Cuthbert or to interest herself in any way in his numerous activities. He came to tea at Mrs. Ogden's request and tried his best, poor man, to wear down what he felt to be Joan's prejudice against him. But he was melodramatic looking and doubtfully clean, and wore a large amethyst cross on his emaciated stomach, and Joan remained unimpressed. "If you want to be a Catholic," she told her mother afterwards, "why not be a real one and be done with it." "I am a real one," said Mrs. Ogden. "Oh no, Mother, you're not, you're only pretending to be. You take the plums out of other people's religion and disregard the rest. I think it's rather mean." "If you mean the Pope!----" began Mrs. Ogden indignantly. "Oh, I mean the whole thing; anyhow, it wouldn't suit me." Mrs. Ogden was offended. "I must ask you not to speak disrespectfully of my religion," she said. "I don't like it." "Then don't keep on pushing it down my throat." They started bickering again. Bickering, always bickering; Joan knew that it was intolerable, undignified, that she ought to control herself, but the power of self-control was weakening in her. She was sorry for her mother, for the past that was so largely responsible for Mrs. Ogden's present, but the fact that she felt sorry only irritated her the more. She told herself that if this new religious zeal had been productive of peace she could have been tolerant, but it was not; on the contrary the domestic chaos grew. If Mrs. Ogden had tried her servants before, she did so now ten times more; she nagged with new-found spiritual vigour; it was becoming increasingly difficult to please her. "It's them meal times, miss," blubbered the latest acquisition to Joan, one morning. "It's the chopping and the changing that's so wearying; I can't stand it, no I can't, I feel quite worn out." "Don't say you want to leave, Ethel?" Joan implored with a note of despair in her voice. "But I do! She's never satisfied, miss; she's at me all the time."