Her limbs were trembling, she
could not eat and she was astonished that Aunt Rose could nibble
biscuits with such nonchalance, that Francis Sales could eat plum
cake.
He was, without doubt, the most attractive man she had ever seen; his
long brown fingers fascinated her. And again she wondered at the odd
sequence of events. She had seen his name on the carts, she had seen
him on the horse, he had picked up her pink orchid, she had been led
by Fate and a squirrel into the wood and now she found him here. It
was like a play and it would be still more like a play if she snatched
him from Aunt Rose. In that idea there was the prompting of her
father, but her mother's part in her was a reminder that she must not
snatch him for herself. No, only out of danger; men were helpless,
they were like babies in the hands of women, and hands could differ;
they could hurt or soothe, and she imagined her own performing the
latter task. She saw it as her mission, and on the way home she told
herself that her silence was not that of anger but of dedication.
5
She thought Aunt Rose looked at her rather curiously, though there was
no expression so definite in that glance. Her aunts did not ask
questions, they never interfered, and if Henrietta chose to be silent
it was her own affair. She was, as a matter of fact, swimming in a
warm bath of emotion and she experienced the usual chill when she
descended from the carriage and felt the pavement under her feet.
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