'Yes, a hunting accident. And you told me about it yourself.'
There was a silence, and then the voice, its sharpness dulled, said
slowly, 'Yes, I told you what I remembered and what I heard
afterwards. A hunting accident! It sounds so simple. That's what they
call it. Names are useful. We couldn't get on without them. I get such
queer ideas, lying here, with nothing to do. Before I was married I
never thought at all. I was too happy.' She seemed to be lost in
memory of that time. Henrietta sat very still; she breathed carefully
as though a brusqueness would be fatal, and the voice began again.
'They call you Henrietta. It's only a name, but it doesn't describe
you; nobody knows what it means except you, but it's convenient. It's
the same with my hunting accident. Do you see?'
Henrietta said nothing. She had that familiar feeling of being in the
dark, and now the evening shadows augmented it. She was conscious of
the cat behind her, on the hearthrug.
'Do you see?' Christabel persisted.
'Things have to be called something,' Henrietta said.
'That's just what I have been telling you. And so Rose Mallett calls
it a hunting accident.' A high-pitched and thin laugh came from the
pillows. 'She was terribly distressed about it. And she actually told
me she had suspected that mare from the first. She told me! It's
funny--don't you think so?'
'No,' Henrietta said stoutly, 'not funny at all.' She spoke in a very
firm and reasonable voice, as though only her common sense could
combat what seemed like insanity in the other.
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