Sarah’s white-faced misery: Janice’s ill-timed jubilation—succeeded by sulks when she discovered that no one was disposed to share her view of the catastrophe as an occasion for rejoicing—quickly brought our once happy domestic routine to the verge of dissolution. The brief art-school term was just over, so that Sarah was at home all day with nothing to distract her from her grief; and to make matters worse—at least, I think it made them worse—we had decided for the time being not to let the news of the break-up spread beyond the immediate family. The decision was mainly Sarah’s: she was so certain (she claimed) that it was all just a misunderstanding which would be cleared up the moment she could contrive to see Mervyn by himself. It would be silly, she said, to upset everyone for nothing. She still went on crying, though; and so, for some reason, did Janice. Just to be in on the drama, I suspected, and my irritation with her grew daily. Surely, at seventeen, she should have had more consideration and self-control than to add to our miseries in this way.
