"Oh—well, it wasn't only that." Muriel leaned forward with her small hands stretched towards the fire.
"She doesn't look more than eighteen now," thought Delia. "What a solemn little child she is."
"You see Mother wasn't frightfully keen on it," explained Muriel sedately.
"Did you ask?"
"No, not exactly. I sounded Aunt Beatrice, who always knows these things. She said that they would be awfully disappointed if I wanted to leave them, and it did not seem worth while to me to make a fuss and to upset every one because I overestimated my own ability."
"Usefulness seems to me a question of intention rather than ability," remarked Delia. "Don't you think that this self-deprecation of yours was a little like cowardice? You hated an upset, and so you decided that you lacked ability."
She glanced sideways at Muriel, who still looked primly meek, facing the liquid flames.
"I wanted to help Mother too," said Muriel, seeking justice.
"Hum. And you thought that by helping your mother you would escape the responsibility of having to help yourself, didn't you? It was the difficult choice you couldn't face, not your own inefficiency."
Would Muriel take offence? Delia, well used to the outrage of her companions, watched the sensitive curve of Muriel's mouth tighten. Would she be too poor-spirited to make defence? Or too ungenerous to accept criticism?