Redford as they had
been, was as unfit for crude housework, and she aggravated her
incompetence by weeping over it. She had not gathered from Deb's
letters that the change in the family fortunes was as great as it now
proved to be; and Deb had not anticipated the effect of adversity upon
one so easily depressed. She had no 'heart', poor thing. She struggled
and muddled, sighing for flowers for the vases while the beds were
unmade; and when she saw a certain look on Deb's face, wept and mourned
and gave up hope. So they "pigged" still, although they did not defile
the furniture with unwashed hands, and the plate and crockery with
greasy dish-cloths. With no knowledge of cookery, they lived too much
on tinned provisions--a diet as wasteful as it was unwholesome--feeding
their wash-and-scrub-women with the same; and their efforts to support
the burden of their domestic responsibilities deprived them of outdoor
exercise and mental rest and recreation--kept them at too close
quarters with one another, each rubbing her quivering prickles upon the
irritable skins of the other two. Frances bore the strain with least
good-nature and self-control, and since she had to vent her ill-humour
on someone, naturally made Miss Keene her victim when it was a choice
between her and Deb. The poor lady grew more and more disappointed,
discouraged and tearful. She became subject to indigestion, headaches,
disordered nerves; finally fell ill and had to have the doctor. The
doctor said she was completely run down, and that rest and change of
air were indispensable. She went away to her relatives, weeping still,
wrapped in Deb's cloak, and with all Deb's ready money in her pocket;
and she did not come back.

Then Deb tried to carry on alone. Any sort of registry office drudge
would have been welcome now, but had become an expense that she dared
not continue. Moreover, the spectre of poverty, looming so distinct and
unmistakable in the house, was a thing to hide, if possible, from
anybody who could go outside and talk about it. The thing had become a
living terror to herself--its claws Jew money-lenders, so velvety and
innocent when her wilful ignorance made first acquaintance with them;
but nobody--not even Mr Thornycroft, not even Jim, CERTAINLY not
Rose--could be allowed to play Perseus to this proud Andromeda. Until
she could free herself, they were not even to know that she was bound.
Of course, she need not have been bound; it was her own