She had found an
occupation, and that night, sitting at the dinner-table, she was
conscious of the difference in herself and of a new kinship with these
women, the two who could look back on adventures, rosy and poetic, the
one who seemed shrouded in some delicate mystery. It was as though
she, too, had been initiated; she was surer of herself, even in the
presence of Aunt Rose, with her beauty like that of a white flower,
the faint irony of her smile.
4
A few days later Rose said, 'I want to take you to see a friend of
mine, a Mrs. Sales.'
'Do the milkcarts belong to them?' Henrietta asked at once.
'Yes.' Rose was amused. 'Mrs. Sales is an invalid and she would like
to see you. Shall we go on Saturday?' She added as she left the room,
'Mrs. Sales was hurt in a hunting accident, but you need not avoid the
subject. She likes to talk about it.'
'What a good thing,' Henrietta said, practically.
Aunt Rose was dressed for walking and Henrietta was afraid of being
asked to go with her, but Aunt Rose made no such suggestion. Since
Sunday Henrietta had been exploring Radstowe and its suburbs with an
enthusiasm surprising to the elder aunts, who did not care for
exercise; but Henrietta was as much inspired by the hope of seeing
that man again as by interest in the old streets, the unexpected
alleys, the flights of worn steps leading from Upper to Lower
Radstowe, the slums, cheek by jowl with the garden of some old house,
the big houses deteriorated into tenements.
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