In this respect she understood him perfectly well, but she did not wish to clear the mysterious gloom, not devoid of excitement, in which they moved together; and they parted for the summer holidays, miserably on his part, cheerfully on hers. She was going to Scotland with Aunt Rose and the prospect was so delightful that she did not trouble to inquire about his movements. She was surprised and almost disappointed that he did not reproach her for this thoughtlessness when, on her return, she went to call on Mrs. Batty and hear about her annual holiday at Bournemouth. Mrs. Batty had suffered very much from the heat, Mr. Batty had suffered from dyspepsia, and they were glad to be at home again, though it was to find that John, without a hint to his parents, had engaged himself to a girl with tastes like his own. “But it’s bull-dogs with her, instead of terriers,” Mrs. Batty sighed. “She brings them here and they slobber on the carpets—dirty things. And golf. But she’s a nice girl, and they go out before breakfast with the dogs and have a game—but I did hope he would look elsewhere, dear.” She gazed sentimentally at Henrietta. “I don’t feel she will ever be a daughter to me. Of course, I kissed her and all that when I heard the news, but now she just comes in and says, ‘Hullo, Mrs. Batty! Where’s John?’ And that’s all. I do like affection. She’ll kiss the bull-dogs, though,” Mrs. Batty added grimly; “but whether she ever kisses John, I can’t say. And as for Charles, he never looks at a girl, so I’m as badly off as ever. Worse, for Charles, really Charles hasn’t a word to throw at me. He comes down to breakfast and you’d think the bacon had upset him, and it’s the best I can get. And his father sits reading the paper and lifting his eyebrows over the edge at Charles. He’s very cool, Mr. Batty is. Half the time, John comes in late for breakfast, after his game, you know, and then he’s in too much of a hurry to talk. They might all be dumb. With Charles it’s all that piano business. I tell him I wish he’d go to Germany and be done with it, though I never think musicians are respectable, with all that hair. Anyhow, Charles is getting bald, and he says he’s too old to start afresh. And then he glares at his father. It’s all very unpleasant. Still, he’s a good boy really. They’re both good boys. I’ve a lot to be thankful for; and, my dear,”—her voice sank, and she laid a plump hand on Henrietta’s—“Mr. Batty says we may give a ball after Christmas. Everybody in Radstowe. We shall take the Assembly Rooms. The date isn’t fixed, and now and then, if he isn’t feeling well, Mr. Batty says he can’t afford it. But that’s nonsense, we shall have it; but don’t say a word. I’ve told nobody else, but somehow, Henrietta, I always want to tell you everything, as if you were my daughter.” Mrs. Batty sighed heavily. “If only Charles were different!”