He stopped in his long stride. “Don’t you laugh yourself at the things that please you very much?” “Oh, don’t!” she begged. He was too much for her; she was helpless, as though she had been drugged to a point when she could move and think, but only through a mist, and she felt that his ease, approaching impudence, was as indecent as Aunt Rose’s calm. It was both irritating and pleasing to know that she could have shattered both with the word she was incapable of saying, but her nearest approach to that was an inquiry after the health of Mrs. Sales. He replied that she was looking forward to Henrietta’s visit. She had very few pleasures and was always glad to see people. “Aunt Rose”—here was an opportunity—“comes, doesn’t she, every week?” He said he believed so. “Did you know her when she was a little girl?” He gave a discouraging affirmative. “What was she like?” “I don’t know.” He had, indeed, forgotten. “Well, you must remember her when she was young.” “Young?” Henrietta nodded bravely though he seemed to smoulder. “As young as I am.” “She was exactly the same as she is now. No, not quite.” “Nicer?” “Nicer? What a word! Nice!” He looked all round him and made a flourish with his stick. He could not express himself, yet he seemed unable to be silent. “Do you call the sky nice?” “Yes, very, when it’s blue.” He gave, to her great satisfaction, the kind of laugh she had expected. “Let us talk about something a little smaller than the sky,” he said. He looked down at her, and she was relieved to see the anger fading from his face; but she was glad to have learnt something of what he felt for Aunt Rose. To him she was like the sky whence came the rain and the sunshine, where the stars shone and the moon, and she wondered to what he would have compared herself. “You said we might be sisters.” He looked again. She wore a broad white hat in honour of the season, her black dress was dotted with white; from one capable white hand she swung her gloves; she tilted her chin, a trick she had inherited from her father, in a sort of challenge. “You like the idea?” he asked. “I don’t believe it. I’m really the image of my father. Did you know him?” “No. Heard of him, of course.” “It’s him I’m like,” Henrietta repeated firmly. “Then the story of his good looks must be true.” Mixed with her pleasure, she had a return of disappointment. Here was Mr. Jenkins once more, and while it was sad to discover his re-incarnation in her ideal, it was thrilling to resume the kind of fencing she thought she had resigned. She forgot her virtuous resolves, and the remainder of the walk was enlivened by the hope of a thrust which she would have to parry, but none came. Francis Sales seemed to have exhausted his efforts, and at the door he said with a sort of sulkiness, “I think you had better go up alone. You must let me see you home.”