She had been cheated of her youth
and strength, and here, with a beautiful, impassive face, was the
woman who might have saved her, a woman with a body strongly slim in
her dark habit, and firm white hands skilled in managing a horse. She
had read the grey mare's mind, and now Christabel, delicately blue and
pink and white, in a wrapper of silk and lace, her hands fidgeting
each other as they had fidgeted the mare's mouth, thought she was
reading the mind of Rose. She stared at her, fascinated but not
afraid. There were things she must find out.
She asked one day, and it was nearly two years since the accident,
'Did they kill the mare?' And Rose, aware that Christabel had known
all the time, answered, 'Yes, at once. Her leg was broken.'
'What a pity!'
Waiting for what would come next, Rose smiled and looked out of the
window at the swaying elm tops.
'Such a useful animal!' Christabel said.
'Very dangerous,' Rose remarked, slipping deliberately into the trap.
'That's what I mean. But not quite dangerous enough. Poor Francis! He
didn't know. He doesn't know now, does he? But of course not.'
Rose had a great horror of a debt and she owed something to
Christabel, but now she felt she had paid it off, with interest. She
breathed deeply, without a sound. Her tone was light.
'He knows all that is good for him.'
'You mean that is good for you.'
Rose stood up, pulled on her washleather gloves, sat down again.
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