Henrietta sang, but now and then she paused and became grave when the spirit of that mother who lived in her memory more and more dimly, as though she had died when Henrietta was a child, overcame the spirit of her father. Her mission was to be one of kindness to Christabel Sales, and if—the song burst out again—if adventure came in her way, could she refuse it? She would refuse nothing—the song ceased—short of sin. She looked at herself and saw a solemn feminine edition of the portrait hanging behind her on the wall. She was like her father, but she took pride in her greater conscientiousness; her vocabulary was larger than his by at least one word. A few days later she set out on that road and past those trees which had been the safe witnesses of so much of Rose Mallett’s life, but their safeness lay in their constant muteness, and they had no message for Henrietta. Walking quickly, she rehearsed her coming meeting with Francis Sales, but when she actually met him on the green track, on the very spot where Rose had pulled up her horse in amazement at the scene of transformation, Henrietta, like Rose, had no formal greeting for him. She said, “The trees! What are you doing with them?” “Turning them into gold.” “But they were beautiful.” “So are lots of things they will buy.” She moved a little under his look, but when he said, “I’m hard up,” she became interested. “Really? I thought you were frightfully rich. You ought to be with all these belongings.” She looked round at the fields dotted with sheep and cattle, the distant chimneys of Sales Hall, the fallen trees and the team of horses dragging logs under the guidance of workmen in their shirt sleeves. “I know all about being poor,” she said, “but I don’t suppose we mean the same thing by the word. I’ve been so poor—” She stopped. “But there’s a lot of excitement about it. I used to hope I should find a shilling in my purse that I’d forgotten. A shilling! You can do a lot with a shilling. At least I can.” “I wish you’d tell me how.” “Pretend you haven’t got it. That’s the beginning. You haven’t got it, so you can’t have what you want.” “I never have what I want.” “Then you mustn’t want anything.” “Oh, yes, that’s so easy.” “Well”—she descended to details with an air of kindness—“what do you want? Let’s work it out. We’d better sit on the wall. After all, it’s rather lovely without the trees. It’s so clear and the air’s so blue, as if it’s trying to make up. Now tell me what you want.” “Something money can’t buy.” “Then you needn’t have cut down the trees.” “I shouldn’t have if I’d thought you’d care.” She said softly but sharply, “I don’t believe that for a moment. Why don’t you tell the truth?” “Do you want to hear it?” “I’m not sure.” “Then I’ll wait while you make up your mind.”