She was always very slim, and the only fair
Mallett in the family; but even in those days Caroline was inclined to
stoutness. She carried it well, however, with a great dignity,
fortified by reassurances from Sophia, and Rose's recollections of the
conversations of these two was of their constant compliments to each
other and the tireless discussion of clothes. These conversations
still went on.
Fifteen years ago she had sat in that carriage in a white frock, with
socks and ankle-strapped black shoes, her long hair flowing down her
back, and she had heard then, as one highly privileged, the words she
would hear again when she arrived home for tea. Under their tilted
parasols they had made their little speeches. No one was more
distinguished than Caroline; no girl of twenty had a prettier figure
than Sophia's; how well the pink feather looked against Caroline's
hair. Rose, listening intently, but not staring too hard lest her gaze
should attract their attention to herself, had looked at the fields
and at the high, smooth wall, and wondered whether she would rather
reach Sales Hall and enjoy the party, or drive on for ever in this
delightful company, but the carriage turned up the avenue of elms and
Rose saw for the first time the house which Francis Sales now offered
as an attraction. It was a big, square house with honest, square
windows, and the drive, shadowed by the elms, ran through the fields
where the haymaking was in progress.
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