Caroline addressed Rose. “Sophia’s modesty is indecent. I’ve done what I could for her.” “Please listen to me,” Rose said. “You are not to belittle Mrs. Sales to people, Caroline. You can be a powerful friend, if you choose, and if you sing her praises there will be a mighty chorus.” “That’s true,” Caroline said. “Yes, that’s true, dear Caroline,” Sophia echoed. “And I think you’re taking this very sweetly, Rose.” “Sweetly? Why?” Caroline pricked up her ears. “What’s this? I’m out of this. Oh, that old rubbish! She will have it you and Francis should have married. My dear Sophia, Rose could have married anybody if she’d wanted to. You’ll admit that? Yes? Then can’t you see”—she tapped Sophia’s knee—“then can’t you see that Rose didn’t want him? That’s logic—and something you lack.” “Yes, dear,” Sophia said with the meekness of the unconvinced. “And of course it’s wrong to think of it now that he’s married to another.” Caroline guffawed her loudest, and the astonished horse quickened his pace. The driver cast a look over his shoulder to see that all was well, for he had a sister who made strange noises in her fits; and Sophia, sitting in her drooping fashion, as though her head with its great knob of fair hair, in which the silver was just beginning to show, were too heavy for her body, had to listen to the old gibes which had never made and never would make any impression on her, though she would have felt forlorn without them. She was the only puritanical Mallett in history, Caroline said. Oh, yes, the General had been great at family prayers, but he was trying to make up for lost time. It was difficult to believe that Sophia and Reginald were the same flesh and blood. Sophia interrupted. She was fond of Reginald, but she had no desire to be like him, and Caroline knew he was a disgrace. They argued for some time, and Rose closed her eyes until the talk, never really acrimonious, drifted into reminiscences of their childhood and Reginald’s. It was strange that they should have chosen that day to speak so much of him, for when they reached home they found a letter addressed in an unfamiliar hand. “What’s this?” Caroline said. It was a thin, cheap envelope bearing a London postmark, and Caroline drew out a flimsy sheet of paper. “I must get my glasses,” she said. Her voice was agitated. “No, no, I can manage without them. The writing is immense, but faint. It’s from that woman.” She looked up, showing a face drawn and blotched with ugly colour. “It’s to say that Reginald is dead.” Mrs. Reginald Mallett had written the letter on the day of her husband’s funeral, and Caroline’s tears for her brother were stemmed by her indignation with his wife. She had purposely made it impossible for his relatives to attend the ceremony. “No,” Sophia said, “the poor thing was distressed. We mustn’t blame her.” “And such a letter!” Caroline flicked it with a disdainful finger.