"I expect they will be soon," said Mrs. Ogden with ghoulish optimism.
Joan sighed; this task of thrusting herself on people who did not want her was one of the trials of life. For many years she had refused to be a district visitor, but lately this too had been one of the duties that her mother's increasing age imposed upon her. Mrs. Ogden worried herself ill if she thought that her share in this all-important work was being neglected, so Joan had given in.
She stretched out her hand for the vests. "How they must hate us," she said thoughtfully.
Mrs. Ogden took off her spectacles. "They? Who?"
"Only the poor Poor."
"You are a strange girl, Joan. I don't understand half the time what you're talking about, and I don't think you do yourself."
"Perhaps not!" Joan's voice was rather sharp; she wished her mother would not speak of her as a "girl," it was ridiculous and embarrassing. At times this and equally trifling irritations made her feel as though she could scream. "Give me the idiotic things!" she said angrily, snatching up the vests; "I'll take them, if you make me, but they'll only throw them away."
Mrs. Ogden appeared not to hear her; she had become slightly deaf in one ear lately, a fact which she had quickly discovered could be used to her own advantage.
"Bring in some muffins for tea, darling," she called after Joan's retreating figure.