RICHARD BENSON came home towards the end of August after a visit to friends in Ireland. To Elizabeth's disappointment, Joan showed no pleasure at his return. However, it appeared that Richard had not forgotten her, for Mrs. Benson wrote insisting that she and Elizabeth should come to luncheon, as he had been asking after them. They went to Conway House on the appointed day. Joan was acquiescent, she never offered much opposition to anything at this time unless it were interference with her self-imposed and ridiculous cramming. After all it was a pleasant luncheon, and Elizabeth, at all events, enjoyed it. Joan thought: "I'm glad she looks happy and pleased, but I wish they'd asked Mother; I wonder why they didn't ask Mother?" Her mother's absence weighed upon her. Not that Mrs. Ogden had withheld a ready consent, she was glad that her girls had such nice neighbours, but Joan knew instinctively that she had felt hurt; she was beginning to know so much about her mother by instinct. She divined her every mood; it seemed to her to be like looking through a window-pane to look at Mrs. Ogden, and the view you saw beyond was usually deeply depressing. Mrs. Ogden had smiled when she kissed her good-bye, but the smile had been a little rueful, a little tremulous; it had seemed to say: "I know I'm not as young as I used to be, I expect they find me dull." Joan wondered if they did find her dull, and her heart ached. She was thinking of her now as she tried to eat. Richard, more freckled and blunt-faced than ever, talked and joked in a kind of desperation; it seemed to him that something must be seriously wrong with Joan. Mrs. Benson's keen eyes watched the girl attentively, and what she saw mystified her. She took Elizabeth into the drawing-room after lunch, having first ordered Richard and Joan into the garden. When she and Elizabeth were alone together she began at once. "What on earth's the matter with Joan, Elizabeth?" "I don't know--why? Do you think she looks ill?" "Don't you?" "Yes." "I was quite shocked to-day. I always feel interested in that child, and I should be dreadfully anxious if she belonged to me." "Well, she's at a difficult age, you know." "Oh, my dear, it's more than that; have you been letting her work too hard?" "Oh!" said Elizabeth violently, "I'm sick to death of being asked that; of course she works too hard, but it isn't that, it's----" "Yes?" queried Mrs. Benson. "It's--oh! I don't know, Mrs. Benson, I can't put it into words, but it's an awful responsibility, somehow; I can't tell you how it worries me." Her voice shook. Mrs. Benson patted her hand reassuringly. "Whatever it is, it's got on your nerves too, Elizabeth."