She missed Milly's presence about the house disproportionately, considering how little that presence had meant when it was there. The place felt empty when she remembered that her sister would never come home again for holidays, would never again lie chattering far into the night about the foolish trifles that had interested her. She had often been frankly bored with Milly in the past, but now she wished with all her heart that Milly were back again to bore her; back again to litter up their room with the rubbish that always collected around her, and above all back again to play so wonderfully on her inferior violin. 2 Their joint nursing of Milly in her last illness had gone far to draw Joan and Elizabeth closer once more. Elizabeth had been splendidly devoted, splendidly capable, as she always was; she seemed to have softened. For three months after Milly's death they forbore to discuss their plans, and when, in the end, Elizabeth broached the subject, she was gentle and reasonable, and seemed anxious not to hurry Joan. But Joan ached to get away; to leave the house and never set foot inside it again, to leave Seabourne and try to forget that such a place existed, to blot out the memory of Milly's tragedy, in action and hard work. She began to read furiously for Cambridge. A terror possessed her that she had let herself get too rusty, and she tormented Elizabeth with nervous doubts and fears. She lost all self-confidence and worked badly in consequence, but persisted with dogged determination. Elizabeth laughed at her. She knew that she was worrying herself needlessly, and told her so; and as they gradually resumed their hours of study Joan's panic subsided. At the end of another three months Joan spoke to her mother. "Dearest, I want to talk about the future." Mrs. Ogden looked up as though she did not understand. "What future?" she asked. "My future, your future. I want you to let me find you a tiny flat in London. I know we've discussed this before, but we never came to any conclusion, and now I think we must." Mrs. Ogden shook her head. "Oh! no," she said. "I shall never leave here now." "Why not? This house will be much too big for you when you're alone." "Alone?" "Yes; when I go to Cambridge, as I want to do in the autumn." There was a long silence. Mrs. Ogden dropped her sewing and looked at her daughter steadily; and then: "You really mean this, about Cambridge, Joan?" Joan hesitated uncomfortably; she wished her mother would not adopt this quiet tone, which was belied by the expression in her eyes. "Well, if I don't go now, I shall never go at all. I'm nearly twenty-four already," she temporized. "So you are, nearly twenty-four. How time flies, dear." "We're hedging," thought Joan. "I must get to the point."