And she wondered for the thousandth time what would become of the three of them? She supposed that the relatives and Celia would never see any of them starve to death, but it would be very disagreeable to have to ask Uncle Preston for help.

In old-fashioned books young people who had to battle with life were often depicted as rushing at it, so to speak, with rosy cheeks and yelps of belligerent pleasure, rather as though they were taking part in a mixed hockey match. But then they had ambitions, and they believed in God, and they were so extremely sure about what was right and what was wrong. That must be a great help; the young Gardens were not at all sure about any of these matters, for they had not been brought up to be.

Sophia had not so far enjoyed battling with life, but a dry, dour feeling of satisfaction peered out sometimes from among her emotions when she wrote a poem which satisfied her or when she took a step towards peace and security. She had this feeling when they secured the cottage, when Francis and Harry got their jobs, when her first poem appeared in print. We’re getting on, she thought cautiously on these occasions. She had long ago decided that, finally, there was no power which cared whether human beings were exquisitely happy or cruelly miserable. Something might create human creatures for a hidden purpose, but it did not care what they felt like.

Meanwhile, the world was a beautiful place, full of varied and exciting experiences. With luck, eighty years might be passed in it; and eighty years was a terrifyingly short time, though thirty seemed so far away. Why! only yesterday, it seemed, she had been seventeen and now she was nearly twenty-two. Her aim was to wrest order, beauty and happiness from life; and every time she wrested a little piece she smiled mockingly in the face of that lack of interest manifested by the creative power, and she thought, Done you again!

She was quite intelligent enough to know that this was a shallow, melodramatic attitude, but she had too much to do at the moment; she had no time to worry over her philosophy.

But she was worried about money.

It was not that they had not enough money. They seemed to have plenty. Sophia had three pounds a week, Harry had five, Francis had one. Mr Marriot stood in the background and could advance money from the practice and from its prospective sale, if they ran short. In theory, the three should have had a comfortable feeling about their finances, but Sophia was worried because they spent so much and saved nothing.

The rent of the cottage, the wages of Miss Tessitt, and the food they ate absorbed frighteningly large sums. Sophia found it impossible to save a halfpenny. Light, the electric power which heated the daily bath of Francis and Harry, fares, lunches in town, clothes, cleaning materials, to say nothing at all of parties which flowed with port, sherry, gin and beer, sucked in money like blotting paper.