She
was beginning to wonder if Francis had received her letter when, with
a dreary sense of watching a familiar scene reacted, she saw him in
the lane with Henrietta by his side. Here was an unexpected
difficulty, and she could do nothing but ride towards them, raising
her whip in greeting.
She said at once to Francis, 'Did you get my letter?' She saw
Henrietta's face flush angrily, but she knew that the time had come
for her to speak. 'I asked you to meet me here.'
He was staring at her and his mouth moved mechanically. 'No, I didn't
get it by the first post. Perhaps it's there now.' With his eyes still
fixed on her, he moved back a step.
'No.' Rose smiled. 'Don't go and get it. Fortunately you are here. I
want to talk to you, Henrietta, please--' Her voice was gentle, she
leaned forward in the saddle with a charming gesture of request, but
Henrietta shook her head. She was antagonized by that charm which was
holding Francis's eyes. A loosened curl had fallen over her forehead,
giving to the severity of her dress, copied from that portrait of her
father, a dishevelling touch, as though a young lady were suddenly
discovered to be a gipsy in an evil frame of mind.
'If it's anything to do with me, I'm going to stay,' she said. 'If it
hasn't, I'll go.' She looked at Francis and added, between her teeth,
'But it must have.' Those words and that look claimed him for her own.
Rose lifted her chin and looked over the two heads, the uncovered one
of Francis Sales and Henrietta's, with her hat a little askew, and,
absurdly, Rose remembered that the child had washed her hair the night
before: that was why the hat was crooked and the curl loose, making
the scene undignified and funny above the pain of it.
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