Afterwards there was some satisfaction in thinking that she had done the dramatic thing—what the pure-minded heroine always did to the villain; but at the time the action was spontaneous and unconsidered. Henrietta was not really avenging an insult: she was simply expressing her annoyance at her pleasure in it. Being, when she chose, a clear- sighted young woman, she realized this, but she also knew that Francis Sales would find the obvious meaning in the blow. For herself, she sanely determined to blot that episode from her mind: it was maddening to think of it as an insult and dangerous to remember its delight, and she was able calmly to tell her aunts that Mr. Sales had seen her home. “Then why didn’t he come in?” Caroline asked with a grunt. “Leaving you on the doorstep like a housemaid!” “He only came as far as the bridge.” “My dear child! What was he thinking of? Men are not what they were, or is it the women who are different? They haven’t the charm! They haven’t the old charm! My difficulty was always to get rid of the creatures. I’m disappointed in you, Henrietta.” “But he’s married,” Henrietta said gravely. “I only needed him on the dark roads and I should think he wanted to go back to Mrs. Sales.” “It would be the first time, then,” Caroline said. “Why, isn’t he fond of her?” “Don’t ask dangerous questions, child—and would you be fond of her yourself?” “She’s very pretty.” “Now, Caroline, don’t,” Sophia begged. Caroline chuckled. “Don’t what?” “Say what you were going to say.” Caroline chuckled again. “I can’t help it. My tongue won’t be tied. I’m like all the Malletts—” “But not before the child.” “You’re a prude, Sophia, and if Henrietta imagines that a man like Francis Sales, any man worth his salt—besides, Henrietta has knocked about the world. She is no more innocent than she looks.” “She doesn’t mean half she says,” Sophia whispered. “And neither is Francis Sales,” Caroline persisted. “Ridiculous! Dark roads, indeed! I don’t think I care for your wandering about at night, Henrietta.” “I won’t do it again,” Henrietta said meekly. “Sophia and I—” Caroline began one of her reminiscences, to which neither Sophia nor Henrietta listened. To the one, they were familiar in their exaggeration, and the other had her own thoughts, which were bewilderingly confused. She had meant to stand between Francis Sales and Aunt Rose; later she had wished to help them, now she did not know whether she wanted to help or hinder. The thing was too much for her, but she wondered if Aunt Rose had ever experienced such a kiss. Meeting her a few minutes later on the stairs, with her slim hand on the polished rail, a beautiful satin-shod foot gleaming below the lace of her dress, she seemed a being too ethereal for a salute so earthly, and because she looked so lovely, because Christabel had been unjust, Henrietta forgot to feel unfriendly.