“And I do honour him,” Caroline guffawed, “honour him all the more.” She had a deep voice and a deep laugh; she ought, she always said, to have been a man, but there was nothing masculine about her appearance. Her dark hair, carefully tinted where greyness threatened, was piled in many puffs above a curly fringe: on the bodice of her flounced silk frock there hung a heavy golden chain and locket; ear-rings dangled from her large ears; there were rings on her fingers, and powder and a hint of rouge on her face. She laughed again. “Mrs. Batty knows I’m right.” Mrs. Batty’s tightly gloved hand made a movement. She was a little in awe of the Miss Malletts. With them she was always conscious of her inferior descent. No General had ever ornamented her family, and her marriage with James Batty had been a giddy elevation for her, but she was by no means humble. She had her place in local society: she had a fine house in that exclusive part of Radstowe called The Slope, and her husband was a member of the oldest firm of lawyers in the city. “You are very naughty, Miss Caroline,” she said, knowing that was the remark looked for. She gave a little nod of her flower-covered head. “And we’ve just got to put up with them, whatever they are.” “Yes, yes, poor dears,” Sophia murmured. “They’re different, they can’t help it.” “Nonsense,” Caroline retorted, “they’re just the same, there’s nothing to choose between me and Reginald—nothing except discretion!” “Oh, Caroline dear!” Sophia entreated. “Discretion!” Caroline repeated firmly, and Mrs. Batty, bending forward stiffly because of her constricting clothes, and with a creak and rustle, ventured to ask in low tones, “Have you any news of Mr. Mallett lately?” The three elder ladies murmured together; Rose, indifferent, concerned with her own thoughts, ate a creamy cake. This was one of the conversations she had heard before and there was no need for her to listen. She was roused by the departure of Mrs. Batty. “Poor thing,” Caroline remarked as the door closed. “It’s a pity she has no daughter with an eye for colour. The roses in her hat were pale in comparison with her face. Why doesn’t she use a little powder, though I suppose that would turn her purple, and after all, she does very well considering what she is; but why, why did James Batty marry her? And he was one of our own friends! You remember the sensation at the time, Sophia?” Sophia remembered very well. “She was a pretty girl, Caroline, and good-natured. She has lost her looks, but she still has a kind heart.” “Personally I would rather keep my looks,” said Caroline, touching her fringe before the mirror. “And I never had a kind heart to cherish.” Tenderly Sophia shook her head. “It isn’t true,” she whispered to Rose. “The kindest in the world. It’s just her way.”