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. She protested: "Oh, but surely this is Miss Wilmot's place." "Never mind that, sit down; I want to talk to you." Joan obeyed unwillingly. "Now tell me about your life. Milly mentions you so seldom, I had no idea she had such an interesting sister; tell me all about yourself; you live with your friend Miss--Miss--Rodney, is that her name? Is she nice? She looks terribly severe." "Oh, no, I don't live with Miss Rodney; I live with my mother at Seabourne." "You live there all the year round? _Quelle horreur_! Why don't you come to London?"