Henrietta pretended not to hear him, and Rose said thoughtfully and slowly, “Oh, no, Charles, people don’t get cold when they are happy.” “I suppose not.” He felt in a vague way that he and Rose, sitting there, for he had forgotten to stand up, were united against the other two who stood, very clear, against the gold-embossed wall of the room, and that those two were conscious of the antagonism. They also were united and he felt an increase of his dull pain at the sight of their comeliness, the suspicion of their likeness to each other. “I suppose not,” Charles said, and after that no one spoke, as though it were impossible to find a light word, and unnecessary. Each one was aware of conflict, of something fierce and silent going on, but it was Rose who understood the situation best and Charles who understood it least. His feelings were torturing but simple. He wanted Henrietta and he could not get her: he did not please her, and that Sales, that Philistine, that handsome, well-made, sulky-looking beggar knew how to do it. But Rose was conscious of the working of four minds: there was her own, sore with the past and troubled by a present in which her lover concealed his discomfiture under the easy sullenness of his pose. He, too, had the past shared with her to haunt him, but he had also a present bright with Henrietta’s allurements yet darkly streaked with prohibitions, struggles and surrenders, and Rose saw that the worst tragedy was his and hers. It must not be Henrietta’s. In their youth she and Francis had misunderstood, and in their maturity they had failed, each other; it was the fault of neither and Henrietta must not be the victim of their folly. Looking at the big fan of black feathers spread on her knee, Rose smiled a little, with a maternal tenderness. Henrietta was her father’s daughter, wilful and lovable, but she was also the daughter of that mother who had been good and loving. Henrietta had her father’s passion for excitement but, being a woman, she had the greater need of being loved, and Rose raised her eyes and looked at Charles with an ironical appreciation of his worthiness, of his comicality. She saw him with Henrietta’s eyes, and her white shoulders lifted and dropped in resignation. Then she looked at Henrietta and smiled frankly. “Another dance has begun,” she said. “Somebody must be looking for you.” “No,” Henrietta said, “it’s with Mr. Sales,” and turning to him with the effect of ignoring Rose, she said in a clear voice which became slightly harsh as she saw him gazing at her aunt oddly, almost as though he were astonished by a new sight, “Shall we go back to the terrace or shall we dance?” “You’ll get cold,” Charles said again angrily. “Let us dance,” Sales said. The door to the ball-room closed behind them and Charles let out a groan. “You see!” he said. Rose hoped he did not see too much and she was reassured when he added, “She takes no notice of me.”