"I must for a little while; try to stop crying, dearest, and go up to Milly. But bathe your eyes first, though; she oughtn't to see them looking red."
Mrs. Ogden walked feebly to the door; she looked old and pinched, she looked more than her age.
"Don't be long," she implored.
3
In the street, Joan saw one or two people she knew, and crossed over, in order to avoid them. It was hot and the sea glared fearfully; she could feel the sun beating down on her head, and putting up her hand found that she was hatless. She quickened her steps.
Elizabeth was upstairs sorting clothes, they lay in little heaps on the bed and chairs; she looked up as Joan came in.
"I'm thinking of having a jumble sale," she said, and then stopped.
Joan sat down on a pile of nightgowns. "It's Milly—they say she's dying."
Elizabeth caught her breath. "What do you mean, Joan?"
Joan told her all there was to tell, from the blood on the handkerchief that morning to the consultation in the afternoon. Elizabeth listened in shocked silence.