Francis Sales
seemed to have exhausted his efforts, and at the door he said with a
sort of sulkiness, 'I think you had better go up alone. You must let
me see you home.'
This was not her first solitary visit to Christabel Sales, and she
half dreaded, half enjoyed meeting the glances of those wide blue
eyes, which were searching behind their innocence and hearing remarks
which, though dropped carelessly, always gave her the impression of
being tipped with steel. She was bewildered, troubled by her sense
that she and Christabel were allies and yet antagonists, and her
jealousy of her Aunt Rose fought with her unwilling loyalty to one of
her own blood. There were moments when she acquiesced in the
suggestions offered in the form of admiration, and others when she
stiffened with distaste, with a realization that she herself was
liable to attack, with horror for the beautiful luxurious room, the
crippled woman, the listening cat. Henrietta sometimes saw herself as
a mouse, in mortal danger of a feline spring, and then pity for
Christabel would overcome this weariness; she would talk to her with
what skill she had for entertainment, and she emerged exhausted, as
though from a fight.
This evening she was amazed to be received without any greeting, but a
question: 'Has Rose Mallett told you why I am here?' Christabel was
lying very low on her couch. Her lips hardly moved; these might have
been the last words she would ever utter.
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