'Do you call the sky nice?'
'Yes, very, when it's blue.'
He gave, to her great satisfaction, the kind of laugh she had
expected. 'Let us talk about something a little smaller than the sky,'
he said. He looked down at her, and she was relieved to see the anger
fading from his face; but she was glad to have learnt something of
what he felt for Aunt Rose. To him she was like the sky whence came
the rain and the sunshine, where the stars shone and the moon, and she
wondered to what he would have compared herself. 'You said we might be
sisters.'
He looked again. She wore a broad white hat in honour of the season,
her black dress was dotted with white; from one capable white hand she
swung her gloves; she tilted her chin, a trick she had inherited from
her father, in a sort of challenge.
'You like the idea?' he asked.
'I don't believe it. I'm really the image of my father. Did you know
him?'
'No. Heard of him, of course.'
'It's him I'm like,' Henrietta repeated firmly.
'Then the story of his good looks must be true.'
Mixed with her pleasure, she had a return of disappointment. Here
was Mr. Jenkins once more, and while it was sad to discover his
re-incarnation in her ideal, it was thrilling to resume the kind of
fencing she thought she had resigned. She forgot her virtuous
resolves, and the remainder of the walk was enlivened by the hope of a
thrust which she would have to parry, but none came.
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