Joan smiled. "Can't you hear? She's at her fiddle."
Elizabeth looked relieved. "Don't call her," she said. "Let me see your examination report." Joan fetched it and put it on the table in front of her. For a moment or two Elizabeth studied it in silence, then she looked up.
"It's perfectly excellent," she remarked.
In her enthusiasm, she picked up the paper to study it more closely, and at that moment the sun came out and fell on her hands.
Joan gasped, a little cry of horror escaped her in spite of herself. Elizabeth looked up, she blanched and hid her hands in her lap, but Joan had seen them; they were hideously seamed and puckered with large, discoloured scars.
"Oh, Elizabeth—your hands! Your beautiful hands! You were so proud of them——"
Joan laid her head down on the table and wept.
2
After supper that night Joan took the plunge. She had not intended doing it so quickly, but waiting seemed useless, and, besides, she was filled with a wild energy that rendered any action a relief. Colonel Ogden was dozing over the evening paper; from time to time he jumped awake with a stifled snort; as always the dining-room smelt of his pipe smoke and stale food. At Joan's quick movement he opened his eyes very wide; he looked like an old baby.
She began abruptly, "Mother, I want to tell you that I'm going to study to be a doctor."