At least that is what we called it.' Very pale,
appearing to have grown thinner in that moment, she looked at the
horse's ears and spoke as though she and Henrietta were alone. 'Until
quite lately. Then he realized, we both realized, our mistake. But it
seems that Francis must have somebody to--to meet, to kiss. Between me
and you there has been some one else.' With a wave of her hand, she
put aside that thought. 'We used to meet here often. This place must
be full of memories for him. For me, the whole countryside is
scattered with little broken bits of love. It breaks so easily, or it
may be only the counterfeit that breaks. Anyhow, it broke, it chipped.
I thought you ought to know that.' She touched her horse with her heel
and turned down the lane. She went slowly, sitting very straight, but
she had the constant expectation of being shot in the back. She had to
remind herself that Henrietta had no weapon but her eyes.
It was those eyes Francis Sales chiefly remembered when he had parted
from Henrietta and turned homewards. There had been scorn in them,
anger, grief, jealousy and expectation. If she had not been so small,
if they had not been raised to his, if he could have looked levelly
into them as he did into the clear grey eyes of Rose, things might
have been different. But she was little and she had clung to him,
looking up. She had told him she could never see her Aunt Rose again.
How could she? Was he sure he did not love Rose still? Was he sure? He
ought to be, for it was he who had made Henrietta love him.
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