"It's not my idea of human nature," Mrs. Ogden replied in a trembling voice.
"Well, in any case it seems to have been Milly's nature, and the point is now that she ought to be sent to London."
"To think," Mrs. Ogden burst out suddenly, "to think that a daughter of mine could stoop to a vulgar intrigue with a common young man in a shop! Could—oh! I simply can't bring myself to say it—but could—well, go to such lengths that he ought to marry her. It's too horrible! It's on a par with our servant Rose, years ago; that was the milkman, and now it's my own flesh and blood—a Routledge!"
Joan sighed impatiently. "Good Lord! Mother, what does it matter who it is, a Routledge or a Rose Smith, it's all the same impulse."
Mrs. Ogden winced. "Please, please; surely there's no need to be so coarse, Joan?"
"I'm not coarse, Mother. Life may be, but I'm not; I'm just looking things squarely in the face. It seems to me that people have different temperaments. Some are pure because they can't help it, and some are impure because they can't help it. Milly likes men too much, and I like them too little, but here we are, we're your daughters, Routledges if you like, and all you can do is to make the best of it. It's horribly hard on you, Mother, but the only way that I see out of it for Milly is for her to go to the College. She'll probably forget this miserable business when she has her music again." She paused.
Mrs. Ogden voiced a sudden, fearful thought. "Joan," she said faintly, "will there—is there going to be a child?"
"No," said Joan. "I don't think you need fear that, from what Milly tells me."
Mrs. Ogden fell back in her chair. "I think I'm going to faint," she whispered, wiping her lips with trembling fingers. Joan went to her and, lifting her bodily, sat down with her mother on her knee. "You can't faint," she told her with the ghost of a smile. "We've no time for fainting, dear; we must go into the accounts and see where the money's to come from."