“I’ve done that, too. Perhaps I haven’t done it enough. I’ve given her chocolates and flowers. What else ought I to do?” Her voice, very calm and clear after his spluttering, said, “Not too much.” “Oh!” This was a new idea. “Oh! I never thought of that. Why—” She interrupted his usual cry. “Women are naturally cruel.” “Are they? I didn’t know that either.” He swallowed the information visibly. She could almost see the process of digestion. “Oh!” he said again. “They don’t mean to be. They are simply untouched by a love they don’t return.” She added thoughtfully: “And inclined to despise the lover.” “That’s it,” he mourned. “She despises me.” And in a louder voice he demanded, not of Rose Mallett, but of the mysterious world in which he gropingly existed, “Why should she?” “She shouldn’t, but perhaps you yourself are making a mistake.” She heard indistinctly the word, “Impossible.” “You can’t be sure.” “I’m quite certain about that—about nothing else.” His big hands moved. “I cling to that.” “Then you must be ready to serve her. Charles, if I ever needed you—” “I’d do anything for you because you’re her aunt. And besides,” he said simply, “you’re rather like her in the face.” “Thank you, but it’s her you may have to serve—and not me. I want her to be happy. I don’t know where her happiness is, but I know where it is not. Some day I may tell you.” She looked at him. He might be useful as an ally; she was sure he could be trusted. “Promise you will do anything I ask for her sake.” He turned the head which had been sunk on his crumpled shirt. “Is anything the matter?” he asked, concerned, and more alert than she had ever seen him. She said, “Hush!” for the door behind was opening and it let in a murmur of voices and a rush of cold, fresh air. Rose shivered and, looking round, she saw Henrietta and Francis Sales. Her cloak was half on and half off her shoulders, her colour was very high and her eyes were not so dazzled by the light that she did not immediately recognize her aunt. It was Francis Sales who hesitated and Rose said quickly, “Oh, please shut the door.” He obeyed and stood by Henrietta’s side, a pleasing figure, looking taller and more finely made in his black clothes. “Have you been on the terrace?” “Yes, it’s a glorious night.” “You’ll get cold,” Charles said severely. She had been out there with the man who murdered music and who, therefore, was a scoundrel, and Charles’s objection was based on that fact and not on Francis Sales’s married state. He had not the pleasure of feeling a pious indignation that a man with an invalid wife walked on the terrace with Henrietta. He would have said, “Why not?” and he would have found an excuse for any man in the beauty, the wonder, the enchantment of that girl, though he could not forgive Henrietta for her friendship with the slaughterer of music and of birds. He glared and repeated, “You’ll be ill.”