“I won’t stay to-day,” Rose said. She was shaking with the anger she suppressed. “But if you don’t,” Christabel cried, “he’ll want to know why. He’ll ask me!” “I can’t help that,” Rose said. Tears came into Christabel’s eyes. “You might at least do that for me.” “Very well. Because you ask me.” “And you’ll come again soon?” The sternness of Rose’s face was broken by an ironic smile. “Of course! If you are sure you want me!” She went downstairs and, as usual, Francis was waiting for her in the matted hall. He did not greet her with a word or a smile. He watched her descend the shallow flight, and together they went down the passage to the clear drawing-room, where the faded water-colours looked unreal and innocent and ignorant of tragedy. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Nothing.” She looked into the oval mirror which had so often reflected his mother’s placid face. “My hat’s a little crooked,” she said. He laughed without mirth. “Never in its life. Has Christabel been worrying you?” “Worrying me? Poor child—” “Yes, it’s damnable, but she does worry one—and you look odd.” “I’m getting old,” she murmured, not seeking reassurance but stating a fact plain to her. “You’re exactly the same!” he said. “Exactly the same!” He swept his face with his hands, and at that sight a new sensation seized her delicately, delightfully, as though a firm hand held her for an instant above the earth, high in the air, free from care, from restrictions, from the necessity for thought—but only for an instant. She was set down again, inwardly swaying, apparently unmoved, but conscious of the carpet under her feet, the chairs with twisted legs, the primrose curtains, the spring afternoon outside. “Let us have tea,” she said. She handled the pretty flowered cups and under her astonished eyes the painted flowers were like a little garden, gay and sweet and gilded. She seemed to smell them and the hiss of the kettle was like a song. Then, as she handed him his cup and looked into his wretched face and remembered the bitter reality of things, she still could not lose all sense of sweetness. “Don’t say any more!” she said quickly. “Don’t say another word.” “I won’t, if you’re sure you know everything. Do you?” “Every single thing.” “And you care?” “Yes.” She drew a breath. “I care—beyond speaking of it. Francis, not a word!”