Christabel smiled oddly and Rose knew that now she was to hear some news. “You can tell her,” Christabel said, “that I shan’t say anything to upset her. I shall say nothing about you—as she loves you so much. Does she love you? I dare say. You make people love you—for a little while.” Her voice lingered on those words. “Yes, for a little while, but you don’t keep love, Rose Mallett. No, you don’t. I’m sorry for you now. Tell Henrietta she needn’t be afraid, because I’m sorry for you. Yes, you and I are in the same boat, in the same deserted boat. If there were any rats they would run away. You said so yourself.” “I said the cat had gone.” “Then you knew?” Rose shook her head. It was her turn to smile. She was prepared for anything Christabel might say, she was even anxious to hear it, but when Christabel spoke in a mysteriously gleeful manner, she had difficulty in repressing a shudder. It was not, she told herself, that she suffered from the knowledge now imparted by Christabel with detail and with proofs, but her malice, her salacious curiosity were more than Rose could bear. She felt that the whole affair, which at first, so long ago, had possessed a noble sadness, a secret beauty, the quality of a precious substance enclosed in a common vial, was indecent and unclean. “So you see,” Christabel said, “you haven’t kept him; you won’t keep Henrietta.” Rose said nothing. She was thinking of what she might have done and she was glad she had not done it. “You don’t seem to mind,” Christabel said. “Why don’t you ask me why I’m so sure?” She laughed. “I ought to know how to find things out by this time, and I know Francis, yes, better than you do. When I had my accident—it wasn’t worth it, was it?—I said to myself, “Now he won’t be faithful to me.” When I knew I should have to lie here, I told myself that. And now you—” Her voice almost failed her. “I suppose you haven’t been kind enough to him.” “I think it’s time I went,” Rose said. “And you’ll never come back?” “Yes, if you want me.” “I can say what I like to you.” “You can, indeed,” Rose murmured. “And tell Henrietta to come too.” “No, I can’t ask Henrietta.” “I promise to be like a maiden aunt. Ah, but she has three already— she knows what they are. That won’t attract her. I’ll be like an invalid in a Sunday School story-book.” “I’ll tell her of your promise,” Rose said.