Lady Vivian did not come downstairs until dinner was over and they were in the drawing-room. Then she took out some needlework. Sir Piers had always liked to see her pretty hands working at what he generically called "embroidery." She sat down under the big standard lamp. Disquiet was in the air, and Char knew that only the unperceptive Trevellyan was unaware of an impending crisis. Miss Bruce fidgeted with the fire-irons, dropped them, and apologized. As though a spell had been broken, Joanna looked up and spoke. "Char, I don't know if you realize that there can be no question of your returning to the office tomorrow--or at all, for the present." The attack had opened. Char was glad of it, although a flare of resentment passed through her mind that her mother should have sought a cowardly protection from a possible scene in the presence of John Trevellyan. "Why not?" she added quietly. "My father is no worse?" "He is exactly the same. But I am not going to risk any shock or vexation to him. He asked me this afternoon if you were at home, and was glad when I said yes. You know he never liked your doing this excessive amount of work." "He never forbade it." "He is not likely to forbid it. When has he ever forbidden you anything? But he thinks that your place now is at home--which it very obviously is." "To do what?" asked Char, with rising bitterness, which she did not try to keep out of her voice. "Does he ever ask for me? Am I of the slightest use?" "He sees you every day, and he might ask for you at any time. He wishes you to remain at home for the present." "It's not fair, it's not reasonable. I do _nothing_ here. I am of no use. It's not as though he really wanted me. It's simply because you--and he--won't be reminded of the war--of the ghastly horrors going on all round us--won't think of the war, or let it be mentioned. You want to shirk it all--" "Don't, Char!" said John suddenly. "Don't say things you'll be sorry for afterwards." "No. I shall not be sorry for speaking the truth. _You_ know it's true, Johnnie." "True!" said Joanna. "What if it is true? Do you suppose that if I can give him one little hour's comfort by ignoring the war, and keeping every thought of it away from him, I wouldn't do so at any cost? The war isn't your responsibility or mine--your father is." She rose, and paced rapidly up and down the length of the room. Char had never seen her mother give way to such impetuous agitation before. She eyed her coldly, but strove to speak gently. "Mother, if it was anything else I'd give in. But I _am_ doing work in Questerham--real, absolutely necessary work--and here--why, I'm not even justifying my existence." "You're working here. You do a lot every day, going through all those letters and things with Miss Jones," Trevellyan pointed out. Joanna threw him a quick glance of gratitude.