Overwhelmed by this generosity, by this kindness, Henrietta did not know what to say. She murmured something about her mother’s wish that she should earn her living, but Caroline scouted the idea, and Sophia, putting her white hand on one of Henrietta’s, assured her that her dear mother would be glad for her child to have the comforts of a home. “I’m not used to them,” Henrietta said. “I’ve always taken care of people. I shan’t know what to do.” They would find plenty for her to do; there were many gaieties in Radstowe and she would be welcomed everywhere. “And now about your clothes,” Caroline repeated. “You are wearing black, of course. Well, black can be very pretty, very French. Look at Rose. She rarely wears anything else, but when Sophia and I were about your age, she used to wear blue and I wore pink, or the other way round.” “You do so still,” Rose remarked. “A pink muslin,” Caroline went on in a sort of ecstasy, “a Leghorn hat wreathed with pink roses—when was I wearing that, Sophia?” “Last summer,” Rose said dryly. “So I was,” Caroline agreed in a matter-of-fact voice. “Now, Henrietta. Get a piece of paper and a pencil, Sophia, and we’ll make a list.” The discussion went on endlessly, long after Henrietta herself had tired of it. It was lengthened by the insertion of anecdotes of Caroline’s and Sophia’s youth, and hardly a colour or a material was mentioned which did not recall an incident which Henrietta found more interesting than her own sartorial affairs. Rose had disappeared, and the dressing-bell was rung before the subject languished. It would never be exhausted, for Caroline, and even Sophia, less vivid than her sister in all but her affections, grew pink and bright-eyed in considering Henrietta’s points. And all the time Henrietta had her own opinions, her own plans. She intended as far as possible to preserve her likeness to her father, which was, as it were, her stock-in-trade. She pictured herself, youthfully slim, gravely petulant, her round neck rising from a Byronic collar fastened with a broad, loose bow, and she fancied the society of Radstowe exclaiming with one voice, “That must be Reginald Mallett’s daughter!” She was to learn, however, that in Radstowe the memories of Reginald Mallett were somewhat dim, and where they were clear they were neglected. It was generally assumed that his daughter would not care to have him mentioned, while praises of her aunts were constant and enthusiastic and people were kind to Henrietta, she discovered, for their sakes.