On the other side of the table Henrietta was shaking delicately. She could only have got relief by inarticulate noises and insanely violent movements. She hated Francis Sales, she hated Rose and Sophia and Charles Batty. She would not go to the concert—yes, she would go and make Charles miserable. She was enraged at the folly of her own remark, at Rose’s self-possession, and at her possible possession of Francis Sales. She could not unsay what she had said and, having said it, she did not know how to go on living with Aunt Rose; but she was going to Wellsborough again and this time she need not come back: yet she must come back to see Francis Sales. And though there was no one in the world to whom she could express the torment of her mind she could, at least, make Charles unhappy. Rose and Sophia were chatting pleasantly, and Henrietta pushed back her chair. “Will you excuse me? I have to catch a train.” Rose inclined her head: Sophia said, “Yes, dear, go. Where did you say you were going?” “To Wellsborough.” “Ah, yes. Caroline and I—Be careful to get into a ladies’ carriage, Henrietta.” “I’m going with Charles Batty,” she said dully. “Ah, then, you will be safe.” Safe! Yes, she was perfectly safe with Charles. He would sit with his hands hanging between his knees and stare. She was sick of him and, if she dared, she would whisper during the music; at any rate, she would shuffle her feet and make a noise with the programme. And to-morrow she would emulate her aunt and waylay Francis Sales. There would be no harm in copying Aunt Rose, a pattern of conduct! She had done it before, she would do it again and they would see which one of them was to be victorious at the last. She fulfilled her intentions. Charles, who had been flourishing under the kindness of her friendship, was puzzled by her capriciousness, but he did not question her. He was learning to accept mysteries calmly and to work at them in his head. She shuffled her feet and he pretended not to hear: she crackled her programme and he smiled down at her. This was maddening, yet it was a tribute to her power. She could do what she liked and Charles would love her; he was a great possession; she did not know what she would do without him. As they ate their rich cakes in a famous teashop, Charles talked incessantly about the music, and when at last he paused, she said indifferently, “I didn’t hear a note.” Mildly he advised her not to wear such tight shoes. “Tight!” She looked down at them. “I had them made for me!” “You seemed to be uncomfortable,” he said. “I was thinking, thinking, thinking.” “What about?” “Things you wouldn’t understand, Charles. You’re too good.” “I dare say,” he murmured. “You’ve never wanted to murder anyone.” “Yes, I have.” “Who?” “That Sales fellow.” Her eyelids quivered, but she said boldly, “Because of me?” “No, of course not. Making noises at concerts. Shooting birds. I’ve told you so before.” “He’s been to Canada.” “I know.”