"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."