She sought Elizabeth out for comfort. "Only a few weeks now, Elizabeth." "Yes, only a few weeks now," repeated Elizabeth flatly. They went on with their plans with quiet stubbornness. They spent a day in London buying their furniture on the hire system; the selection was not very varied, but they could not afford to go elsewhere. They chose fumed oak for the most part, and blue-grey curtains with art carpets to match them. Their greatest extravagance was a large roomy bookcase. Joan said: "Think of it; this is for our books, yours and mine." Elizabeth smiled and pressed her hand. "Are you happy, my dear?" she asked doubtfully. Joan flared up. "What a ridiculous question to ask; but perhaps you're not happy?" "Oh, don't!" said Elizabeth, turning away. They had tea in the restaurant of the "Furniture Emporium," tepid Indian tea and stale pound cake. "Ugh!" said Joan disgustedly, as she tried to drink the mixture. "Yes, it's undrinkable," Elizabeth agreed. They paid for the meal which they had left untouched, and catching a bus, went to the station. On their way home in the train they sat silent. They were very tired, but it was not that which made speech difficult, but rather the sense of deep disappointment oppressing them both. No, it had not been at all like they had expected, this choosing of the furniture for their home together; something intangible had spoilt it all. "It was my fault," Joan thought miserably. "It was all my fault. I meant to be happy, I wanted to be, but I wasn't a bit--and Elizabeth saw it." When they said "Good night" at the Rodneys' house they clung to each other for a moment in silence. "Go. Oh, do go!" said Elizabeth brokenly, and Joan went with drooping head. CHAPTER FORTY 1 IT had come. Joan lay awake and realized that this was her last night in Seabourne. She got up and lit the gas. Her eyes roved round the familiar bedroom; there was Milly's bed--they had not had it moved after her death, and there was the old white wardrobe and the dressing-table, and the crazy arm-chair off which she and Milly had torn the caster when they were children. The caster had never been replaced. "How like Seabourne," she thought, smiling ruefully. "Casters never get themselves replaced here; nothing does." She looked at her new trunk, already locked and strapped; it had been a present from her mother, and her name, "Joan Ogden," was painted across its top in white block letters. "I thought it safer to put the full name," her mother had said. The blind flapped and the gas flame blew sideways; it was windy, and the thud of the sea on shingles came in and seemed to fill the room. "I am happy!" she told herself; "I'm very happy."