She found that she was whispering to herself: "Elizabeth's not so young any more. Oh, God! Elizabeth is almost growing old."
She felt that her sorrow must choke her; pity, sorrow, and still more, shame. Elizabeth's youth was slipping, slipping; it would soon have slipped out of sight. Joan stooped on a sudden impulse and kissed the scarred hand.
"Joan! Are you here? You woke me; you were kissing my hand!"
"Yes, I was kissing the scars."
Elizabeth twitched her hand away. "Don't be a fool!" she said roughly.
Joan looked at her, and something, perhaps the pity in her eyes made Elizabeth recover herself.
"Tell me what's the matter," she asked quietly. "Has anything new happened?"
Joan sat down beside her on the bed. "Come here," she said.
Elizabeth moved nearer, and Joan's arm went round her with a quiet, strong movement. She kissed her on the forehead where the grey hairs showed, and then on the eyelids, one after the other. Elizabeth lay very still.
Joan said: "They're sending Milly home; I'm afraid she's in consumption."