“I don’t think you would call her very old. She is younger than I am.” “Oh, that’s not old,” Henrietta said kindly. “Has she any children?” “No, there’s a cat and a dog—especially a cat.” “And a husband, I suppose?” “Yes, a husband. Do you like cats, Henrietta?” “They catch mice,” Henrietta said informatively. “I don’t think this one has ever caught a mouse, but it lies in wait— for something. Cats are horrible; they listen.” And she added, as though to herself, “They frighten me.” “I’m more afraid of dogs,” Henrietta said. “Oh, but you mustn’t be.” “Well,” Henrietta dared, “you’re afraid of cats.” “I know, but dogs, they seem to be part of one’s inheritance—dogs and horses.” “All the horses I’ve known,” Henrietta said with her odd bitterness, “have been in cabs, and even then I never knew them well.” “Francis Sales must show you his,” Rose said. “There are the hills. Now we turn to the left, but down that track and across the fields is the short cut to Sales Hall. One can ride that way.” “I should like to see the dairy,” Henrietta remarked, “or do they pretend they haven’t one?” Rose smiled. “No, they’re very proud of it. It’s a model dairy. I’ve no doubt Francis will be glad to show you that, too. And here we are.” The masculine hall, with its smell of tobacco, leather and tweed, the low winding staircase covered with matting, its walls adorned with sporting prints, was a strange introduction to the room in which Henrietta found herself. She had an impression of richness and colour; the carpet was very soft, the hangings were of silk, a fire burned in the grate though the day was warm and before the fire lay the cat. The dog was on the window-sill looking out at the glorious world, full of smells and rabbits which he loved and which he denied himself for the greater part of each day because he loved his mistress more, but he jumped down to greet Rose with a great wagging of his tail. She stooped to him, saying, “Here is Henrietta, Christabel. Henrietta, this is Mrs. Sales.” The woman on the couch looked to Henrietta like a doll animated by some diabolically clever mechanism, she was so pink and blue and fair. She was, in fact, a child’s idea of feminine beauty and Henrietta felt a rush of sorrow that she should have to lie there, day after day, watching the seasons come and go. It was marvellous that she had courage enough to smile, and she said at once, “Rose Mallett is always trying to give me pleasure,” and her tone, her glance at Rose, startled Henrietta as much as if the little thin hand outside the coverlet had suddenly produced a glittering toy which had its uses as a dagger. She, too, looked at Rose, but Rose was talking to the dog and it was then that Henrietta became really aware of the cat. It was certainly listening; it had stretched out its fore-paws and revealed shining, nail-like claws, and those polished instruments seemed to match the words which still floated on the warm air of the room.