Mrs. Ogden took offence at the levity in her daughter's tone and the rest of the meal passed in comparative silence. At last Joan paid for the tea and they got up to go. She helped her mother with her wrap. "My fur's gone under the table," said Mrs. Ogden, looking vague. Joan dived and retrieved the worn mink collar. "Your gloves, Mother!" she reminded. Mrs. Ogden glanced first at the table and then at the chair, with a worried eye. "What _have_ I done with my gloves?" she said unhappily, "I really believe there's a demon who hides my things." She screwed up her eyes and peered about; her hand strayed casually into the pocket of her wrap. "Ah! here they are!" she cried, "I knew I'd put them somewhere." Immediate problems being satisfactorily solved, Joan jerked herself into her own coat; a green freize ulster with astrachan cloth at the neck and sleeves. As she did so her soft felt hat tilted itself a little back on her head. It was the sort of hat that continually begs forgiveness for its wearer, by saying in so many words: "I'm not really odd or unusual, observe my feminine touches!" If the hat had been crushed down in the middle it might have looked more daring and been passably becoming, but Joan lacked the courage for this, and wore the crown extended to its full height. If it had been brown or black or grey it might have looked like its male prototype, and been less at variance with its wearer's no longer fresh complexion and angular face, but instead it was pastel blue. Above all, if it had not had the absurd bunch of jaunty feathers, shaped like an interrogation mark, thrust into its band, it might have presented a less abject appearance, and been less of a shouted apology for the short grey hair beneath it. They were ready at last. Mrs. Ogden had her bag, her umbrella, her fur and two parcels, all safely disposed about her person. She took her daughter's arm for guidance as they threaded through the labyrinth of tea-tables; if she would have put on her glasses this would not have been necessary, but in one respect she refused to submit to the tyranny of old age; she would never wear spectacles in public except for reading. A cold March wind swept round the corners of the High Street. "Put your fur over your mouth, Mother, this wind is deadly," Joan cautioned. Mrs. Ogden obeyed, and the homeward walk was continued in silence. Joan opened the door with a latch-key and turned up the gas in the hall. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed anxiously, "who left that landing window open?" Mrs. Ogden disengaged her mouth. "Helen!" she called loudly, "Helen!" She waited and then called again, this time at the kitchen door, but there was no reply. "She's gone out without permission again, Joan; I suppose it's that cinema!" "Never mind, dearest, you go and sit down, I'll shut the window myself. It seems to me that one's got to put up with all their ways since the war; if you don't, they just walk out."