"But what do you propose to do? You can't sweep floors and that sort of thing; this is awful!"
"Now don't begin to worry, Joan. I shall be perfectly all right; I can have a charwoman twice a week."
"But what about the cooking, Mother?"
"Oh, that will be easy, darling; you know how little I eat."
Joan began walking about the room, a trick she had acquired lately when worried. "It's impossible!" she protested. "You'll end by making yourself very ill."
Mrs. Ogden got up and kissed her. "Do you think," she said softly, "that I can't make sacrifices for my girl, when she demands them of me?"
"Oh, Mother, I do beg of you to come to London! I know I could make you comfortable there."
Mrs. Ogden drew herself away. "No, I can't do that," she said. "I've lived here since you and Milly were little children, my husband died here and so did your sister; you mustn't ask me to leave my memories, Joan."
In July the servant left. "No, darling, don't do the housework for me; I must learn to do things for myself," said her mother, as Joan was going into the kitchen as a matter of course.
A period of chaos ensued. Mrs. Ogden struggled with brooms and slop-pails as a mosquito might struggle with Cleopatra's Needle. The food she prepared came out of tins, for the most part, and what was fresh was spoilt before it reached the table. Their meals were tragedies, and when on one occasion Joan's endurance gave out over a particularly nasty stew, Mrs. Ogden burst into tears.