Milly had hit upon a course of action diametrically opposed to her real feelings, which were placid and a little amused. She intended to go to London, and it occurred to her that the best way to achieve this might be to make herself dispensable; at all events it was worth trying. She therefore sulked and wept to an abnormal extent, and took care that these fits of weeping should not go unobserved. Whenever possible she shut herself up with her violin, ignoring the hours of meals. Her family became alarmed and put a tray outside her door, which she mostly left untouched, having provided herself with a surreptitious supply of rolls and potted meat. Her father looked at her glumly, but through his angry eyes shone an uneasy, almost wistful expression, when forced to meet his favourite daughter face to face. At the end of a fortnight he could bear it no longer and began to make tentative efforts at reconciliation. "That's a pretty dress you have on, Milly; going out to give the neighbours a treat?" Milly turned away. "No," she said shortly. "Coming out with your old father this morning, when he goes for a drive in his perambulator? It's devilish dull with no one to talk to." She stared at him coldly. "I have my violin to practise; I'm sorry I can't come." The colonel winced; she was more than a match for him now, this impudent daughter of his, perhaps because he loved her as deeply as he was capable of loving. Once, when she had been unusually rude, snubbing his advances with the sharp cruelty of youth, Joan had seen his bulgy eyes fill with tears. She waited until they were alone together and then she turned on her sister. "Beast!" she said emphatically. "I don't know what you mean," retorted Milly. "I think you're a perfect beast to treat Father the way you do lately. Anyone can see he's terribly ill and you speak to him as though he were a dog." "Well, he's treated me as though _I_ were a dog--no, worse; he'd give a dog a sweet biscuit any day, but he denies me the only thing I long for, that I'm ready to work for--my music. It's my whole life!" she added melodramatically. "Rot!" said Joan. "That's no reason for speaking to him as you do; I can't stand it, it makes me feel sick and cold; his eyes were full of tears to-day." "Well, my eyes are almost blind from crying--I cry all night long." "That's a whopper, you snored all last night." "Oh!" exclaimed Milly, angrily. "How I do _hate_ sharing a room with you, there's no privacy!" Joan laughed rudely. "You are an ass, Milly, you try so hard to be grown up and you're nothing but a silly kid." "Perhaps if you knew all," Milly hinted darkly, "you'd realize that some people think me grown up." "Do they?" "Yes, Mr. Thompson does, if you must know." "I didn't say I wanted to know." "Well, Mr. Thompson doesn't treat me as though I were a little girl; he's very attentive." "Do you mean the young man at the library, who smells of hair oil?" "I mean Mr. Thompson the tennis player."