'
'I should never give your Aunt Rose my confidence,' he said severely.
It was impossible not to feel a warmth of satisfaction, and she asked
shortly, 'Why not?' 'She wouldn't understand. You're human. I'm
devilish lonely. Well, you know my circumstances.' A shadow which
seemed to affect the brightness of the autumn day, even deadening the
clear shouting of the men and the jingling of the chains attached to
the horses, passed over Francis Sales's face. 'One wants a friend.'
A cry of genuine bewilderment came from Henrietta. 'But I thought you
were so fond of Aunt Rose!'
From sulky contemplation of his brown boots and leggings, he looked at
her. His eyes, of a light yet dense blue, were widely opened. 'What
makes you think that? Did she tell you?'
Henrietta's lip curled derisively. 'No, it was you, when you looked at
her. And now you have told me again.' She had a moment of thoughtful
contempt for the blundering of men. There was Charles, who always
seemed to wander in a mist, and now this Francis Sales, who revealed
what he wished to hide. He was mentally inferior to Mr. Jenkins, who
had a quickness of wit, a vulgar sharpness of tongue which kept the
mind on the alert; but physically she had shrunk from Mr. Jenkins's
proximity, while that of Francis Sales, in his well-cut tweeds and his
shining boots, who seemed as clean as the air surrounding him, had an
attraction actually enhanced by his heaviness of spirit.
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