Mrs. Sales let out a sigh so faint that most people would have missed it. “It will be beginning soon, won’t it?” “It feels a long way off in weather like this,” Rose said. “But they are getting into the carriage. I must go.” Mrs. Sales lingered for an instant. “I do hope we’re going to be friends.” This was more than a statement, it was a request, and Rose shrank from it; but she said lightly, “We shall be meeting often. You will see more of us than you will care for, I’m afraid. The Malletts are rather ubiquitous in Radstowe. It’s fortunate for us, or Caroline would die of boredom, but I don’t know how it appears to other people.” She was going down the shallow stairs and the voice of Mrs. Sales followed her sadly: “He hasn’t told me anything about any of his friends.” “In three months? He hasn’t had time, with you to think about!” A laugh, pleased and self-conscious, reached her ears. “No, but it’s rather lonely in this old house. We’re a big family at home—and so lively. There was always something going on. I wished we lived nearer Radstowe.” “And I envy you here. It’s peaceful.” “Yes, it’s that,” Mrs. Sales agreed. “I’m a good deal older than you, you see,” Rose elaborated. “That’s just it,” said Mrs. Sales. Rose laughed, and Francis, standing at the door, turned at the sound in time to catch the end of Rose’s smile. “What are you laughing at?” “Mrs. Sales’s candour.” “Oh, was I rude?” “No. Good-bye. I liked it.” Yet, as she settled herself in her place, she was not more than half pleased. She liked her superior age only because it marked a difference between her and the wife of Francis Sales. “H’m!” Caroline said when the carriage had turned into the road and the figures in the doorway had disappeared. “Pretty, but unformed.” “They seem very happy,” Sophia said, “but I do think she ought to have been wearing black. Her father-in-law has only been dead six months, and even Francis was not wearing a black tie.” But if Caroline condemned men in general, she supported them in particular. “Quite right, too. Men don’t think of these things—and a black tie with those tweeds! Sophia, don’t be silly and sentimental; but you always were, you always will be.” “She might have had a white frock with a black ribbon,” Sophia persisted. “Why, Rose looked more like our old friend’s daughter-in-law.” “But hardly like a bride,” Rose said. “And you see, pink is her colour.” “So it is, dear. One could see that. Pink and blue, just as they were mine.” She corrected herself. “_Are_ mine. Our complexions are very much alike; in fact, she reminded me a little of myself.” “Nonsense, Sophia! If you had been like that I should have disowned you. However, she will do well enough for Sales Hall.” Rose bent forward slightly. “I like her,” she said distinctly. “And she’s lonely.” “Well, my dear, she’ll soon have half a dozen children to keep her lively.” “Hush, Caroline! The man will hear you.”