“But he has come back.” “Well, I suppose he had to come back some day.” “And I hate Aunt Rose.” “What a pity,” Charles said, taking another cake. “Why a pity?” “Beautiful woman.” “Oh, yes, everybody thinks so, till they know her.” “I know her and I think she’s adorable.” The word was startling from his lips. Charles, too, she exclaimed inwardly. Was Aunt Rose even to come between her and Charles? “But of course”—he remembered his lesson—“you’re the most beautiful and the best woman in the world.” “I’m not a woman at all,” she said angrily: “I’m a fiend.” “Yes, to-day; but you won’t be to-morrow. You’ll feel different to-morrow.” He had, she reflected, a gift of prophecy. “Yes, I shall,” she said softly, “I’m stupid. It will be all right to-morrow. I shan’t even be angry with Aunt Rose and you’ve been an angel to me. I shall never forget you.” He said nothing. He seemed very much interested in his cake. And because she foresaw that her anger towards Aunt Rose would soon be changed to pity, she apologized to her that night. “I’m afraid I was rude to you at luncheon.” “Were you? Oh, not rude, Henrietta. Perhaps rather foolish and indiscreet. You should think before you speak.” This admonition was not what Henrietta expected, and she said, “That’s just what I was doing. You mean I ought to be quiet when I’m thinking.” “Well, yes, that would be even better.” “Then, Aunt Rose, I should never speak at all when I’m with you.” “You haven’t talked to me for a long time.” She made a gesture like her father’s—impatient, hopeless. “How can I?” she demanded. There was too much between them: the figure of Francis Sales was too solid. She set out as she had intended the next afternoon. It was full spring-time now and Radstowe was gay and sweet with flowering trees. The delicate rose of the almond blossom had already faded to a fainting pink and fallen to the ground, and the laburnum was weeping golden tears which would soon drop to the pavements and blacken there; the red and white hawthorns were all out, and Henrietta’s daily walks had been punctuated by ecstatic halts when she stood under a canopy of flower and leaf and drenched herself in scent and colour, or peeped over garden fences to see tall tulips springing up out of the grass; but to-day she did not linger.