'
'Don't let that carry you too far.'
'That's what I'm afraid of. Not him, exactly, but me.'
'I didn't suspect you of such tenderness. I shall have to look after
you.'
'I wish you would.'
'And if you are feeling very kind some day, perhaps you will go and
see Christabel Sales. She has promised to behave herself.'
Henrietta's expression tightened. 'I don't want to go. It's a dreadful
place.'
'I know,' Rose said, and she added encouragingly, 'but the cat has
gone.'
They were standing together in the hall and against the white panelled
walls, the figure of Rose, in the austere riding habit, one
gauntletted hand holding her crop, the other resting lightly on her
hip, had an heroic aspect, like a statue in dark marble; but her eyes
did not offer the blank gaze, the calm effrontery of stone: they
looked at Henrietta with something like appeal against this obsession
of the cat.
'Oh, I'm glad the cat's gone,' Henrietta murmured. 'What happened to
it?'
Rose shook her head. 'It disappeared.'
They stared at each other until Henrietta said, 'But all the same, I
don't want to go.' And then, because Rose would not help her out, she
was obliged to say, 'It's Mr. Sales.' Her voice dropped. 'I haven't
seen him since I hit him.'
Rose turned to go upstairs. 'I shouldn't think too much of that.'
'You don't think it matters?'
'No.'
Henrietta looked after her and followed her for a step. 'You think I
may go?' Her voice was dull under her effort to control it.
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