"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.
"Work here, Char, as much as you like," she exclaimed eagerly. "You can have any one you please out here—so long as they don't make a noise," she added hastily.
The expression was infelicitous.
"You talk as though I were a child, and wanted to have other children out here to play with me. Good heavens, mother! I do you realize that my work is for the nation, neither more nor less?"
"If I don't, it's not for want of being told," said her mother with sudden dryness.
"It's easy to say that sort of thing, to accuse me of self-complacency in the tiny little part I contribute to an enormous whole."
"It's not that, Char!" cried Joanna hastily. "I don't care if you have megalomania in its acutest form"—Miss Bruce bounded irrepressibly on her chair—"but I will not have your father distressed. That's my one and only concern. Johnnie, help me to make her understand."
"I do understand, mother," said Char. "You would sacrifice everything to the personal question—women always do. But I can't see it like that. The broader issue lies there, under my very eyes, and I can't shirk it."