'Are you going? But you must have tea with Francis. He's expecting
you.'
'I won't stay to-day,' Rose said. She was shaking with the anger she
suppressed.
'But if you don't,' Christabel cried, 'he'll want to know why. He'll
ask me!'
'I can't help that,' Rose said.
Tears came into Christabel's eyes. 'You might at least do that for
me.'
'Very well. Because you ask me.'
'And you'll come again soon?'
The sternness of Rose's face was broken by an ironic smile. 'Of
course! If you are sure you want me!'
She went downstairs and, as usual, Francis was waiting for her in the
matted hall. He did not greet her with a word or a smile. He watched
her descend the shallow flight, and together they went down the
passage to the clear drawing-room, where the faded water-colours
looked unreal and innocent and ignorant of tragedy.
'What's the matter?' he asked.
'Nothing.' She looked into the oval mirror which had so often
reflected his mother's placid face. 'My hat's a little crooked,' she
said.
He laughed without mirth. 'Never in its life. Has Christabel been
worrying you?'
'Worrying me? Poor child--'
'Yes, it's damnable, but she does worry one--and you look odd.'
'I'm getting old,' she murmured, not seeking reassurance but stating a
fact plain to her.
'You're exactly the same!' he said. 'Exactly the same!' He swept his
face with his hands, and at that sight a new sensation seized her
delicately, delightfully, as though a firm hand held her for an
instant above the earth, high in the air, free from care, from
restrictions, from the necessity for thought--but only for an instant.
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