On her first visit after Caroline’s death, Mrs. Batty received the bereaved niece with unction. “Ah, poor dear,” she murmured, and whether her sympathy was for Caroline or Henrietta, perhaps she did not know herself. “Poor dear! I can’t get your aunt out of my head, Henrietta, love. There she was at the party, looking like a queen— well, you know what I mean—and Mr. Batty said she was the belle of the ball. It was just his joke; but Mr. Batty never makes a joke that hasn’t something in it. I could see it myself. And then for her to die like that—it seems as if it was our fault. It was a beautiful ball, wasn’t it, dear? I do think it was, but it’s spoilt for me. I can only be thankful it wasn’t her stomach or I should have blamed the supper. As it is, there must have been a draught. It was a cold night.” “It was a lovely night,” Henrietta said, thinking of the terrace and the dark river and the stars. She could remember it all without shame, for he had not failed her and her personality had not failed. He had not deserted her, and when they met there would be no need for explanations. He would look at her, she would look at him—she had to rouse herself. “Yes, it was a splendid ball, Mrs. Batty.” “And what did you think of my dress, dear?” Mrs. Batty asked, and checked herself. “But we ought not to talk about such things with your dear aunt just dead. You must miss her sadly. Did you—were you with her at the end?” But this was a region in which Henrietta could not wander with Mrs. Batty. “Don’t let us talk of it,” she said. Mrs. Batty gurgled a rich sympathy and after a due pause she was glad to resume the topic of the dance. This was her first real opportunity for discussing it; under Mr. Batty’s slightly ironical smile and his references to expense, she had controlled herself; among her acquaintances it was necessary to treat the affair as a mere bagatelle; but with Henrietta she could expand unlimitedly. What she thought, what she felt, what she said, what other people said to her, and what her guests were reported to have said to other people, was repeated and enlarged upon to Henrietta who, leaning back, occasionally nodding her head or uttering a sound of encouragement, lived through that night again. Yes, out on the terrace he had been the real Francis Sales and that man in the hollow looking at Aunt Rose and then turning to Henrietta in uncertainty was the one evoked by that witch on horseback, the modern substitute for a broomstick. Christabel Sales was right: Aunt Rose was a witch with her calm, white face, riding swiftly and fearlessly on her messages of evil. He was never himself in her presence: how could he be? He was under her spell and he must be cleared of it and kept immune. But how? Through these thoughts, which were both exciting and alarming, Henrietta heard Mrs. Batty uttering the name of Charles. “He seems to have taken a turn for the better, my dear.” “Has he been ill?” Henrietta asked.