It was marvellous that she had
courage enough to smile, and she said at once, 'Rose Mallett is always
trying to give me pleasure,' and her tone, her glance at Rose,
startled Henrietta as much as if the little thin hand outside the
coverlet had suddenly produced a glittering toy which had its uses as
a dagger. She, too, looked at Rose, but Rose was talking to the dog
and it was then that Henrietta became really aware of the cat. It was
certainly listening; it had stretched out its fore-paws and revealed
shining, nail-like claws, and those polished instruments seemed to
match the words which still floated on the warm air of the room.
'And now she has brought you,' Christabel went on. 'It was kind of you
to come. Do sit here beside me. Tell me what you think of Rose. Tell
me what you think,' she laughed, 'of your aunt. She's beautiful, isn't
she?'
'Yes, very,' Henrietta said, and she spoke coldly, because she, too,
was a Mallett, and she suspected this praise uttered in Rose's hearing
and still with that sharpness as of knives. She had never been in a
room in which she felt less at ease: perhaps she had been prejudiced
by Aunt Rose's words about the cat, but that seemed absurd and she was
confused by her vague feelings of anger and pity and suspicion.
However, she did her best to be a pleasant guest. She had somehow to
break the tenseness in the room and she called on her reserve of
anecdote. She told the story of Mr.
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