Mrs. Blane settled herself more comfortably in her chair. "This requires thought," she murmured. "There's just a faint chance that I might get taken on at a shop," Joan told her. "But I'm rather old for that too, and there's the standing." "A _shop_?" gasped her aunt, with real horror in her voice. "You think of going into a _shop_, Joan?" "Well, one must do something, Aunt Ann; beggars can't be choosers." "But, my dear--a Routledge--a shop? Oh, no, it's impossible; besides it's out of the question for us that you should do such a thing. What would it look like, for a man in your uncle's position to have a niece serving in a shop! What would people say? You must consider other people's feelings a little, Joan." But at this point Joan's temper deserted her. "I don't care a damn about other people's feelings!" she said rudely. "It's my varicose veins I'm thinking of." The bishop gave a low, hoarse chuckle. "Bravo! she's quite right," he said delightedly. "Her veins are much more important to her than we are; and why shouldn't they be, I'd like to know! Even a Routledge is occasionally heir to the common ills of mankind, my dear." His eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement and malice. "In your place, Joan, I'd do whatever I thought best for myself. Being a Routledge won't put butter on your bread, whatever your aunt may say." His wife waved him aside. "I've been thinking of something, Joan," she said. "Your future has been very much on my mind lately, and in case you had nothing in view, I took steps on your behalf the other day that I think may prove to be useful. Did your mother ever mention our cousin Rupert Routledge to you?" Joan nodded. "Well, then, you know, I suppose, that he's an invalid. He's unmarried and quite well off, and what is more to the point, his companion, that is, the lady who looked after him, has just left to take care of her father, who's ill. Rupert's doctor wrote to me to know if I could find someone to take her place, and of course I thought of you at once, but I didn't mention this before in case you had anything in your own mind. You're used to illness, and the salary is really excellent; a hundred a year." "He's not an invalid," piped the bishop eagerly. "He's as strong as a horse and as mad as a hatter! Don't you go, Joan!" "Oswald!" admonished Mrs. Blane. But the bishop would not be silenced, "He's mad, you know he's mad; he's sixty-five, and he thinks he's six. He showed me his toys the last time I saw him, and cried because he wasn't allowed to float his boat in the bath!" Mrs. Blane flushed darkly. "There is not and never was any insanity in our family, Oswald. Rupert's a little eccentric, perhaps, but good gracious me, most people are nowadays!" The bishop stuck his hands in his pockets and gave a very good imitation of a schoolboy whistle.