She did not love him, she could never love him, but he had loved her,
angrily, and, in retrospect, the absurd manner of his proposal had a
charm. She would have given much to know whether his feeling for her
persisted. From the letters read wheezily by Mr. Sales and sometimes
handed to her to read for herself, she learnt so little that she was
the freer to create a great deal and, riding home, she would break
into astonished inward laughter. Rose Mallett playing a game of
sentiment! And, crossing the bridge and passing through the streets
where she was known to every second person, she had pleasure in the
conviction that no one could have guessed what absurdity went on
behind the pale, impassive face, what secret and unsuspected amusement
she enjoyed; a little comedy of her own! The unsuitability of Francis
Sales for the part of hero supplied most of the humour and saved her
from loss of dignity. The thing was obviously absurd; she had never
cared for dolls, but in her young womanhood she was finding amusement
in the manipulation of a puppet.
The death of Mr. Sales in the cold March of the next year shocked her
from her game. She was sorry he had gone, for she had always liked
him, and he seemed to have taken with him the little girl who was fond
of pigs, and while Caroline and Sophia mourned the loss of an old
friend, Rose was faced with the certainty of his son's return. She
would have to stop her ridiculous imaginings, she must pretend she had
never had them for, when she saw him as flesh and blood, her game
would be ruined and she would be shamed.
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