the wood, raised her dark eyebrows sceptically.

'Lovely! Rubbish! A nun, and the first in the family. All our women,'
Caroline turned to Henrietta, 'have broken hearts. They can't help it.
It's in the blood. You'll do it yourself. All except Rose. And our
men--' she guffawed; 'yes, even the General--but if I tell you about
our men Sophia will be shocked.'

'The men!' Henrietta straightened herself and looked round the table.
Her dark eyes shone, and the anger she was powerless to display
against Aunt Rose, the remembrance of her own and her mother's
struggles, found an outlet. 'You can't tell me anything I don't know.
I don't think it is funny. Haven't I suffered through one of them? My
father, he wasn't anything to boast about.'

'Henrietta,' Sophia said gently, and Caroline uttered a stern, 'What
are you saying?'

'I don't care,' Henrietta said. 'Perhaps you're proud of all the harm
he did, but my mother and I had to bear it. He was weak and selfish;
we nearly starved, but he didn't. Oh, no, he didn't!' With her hands
clasped tightly on her knee she bent over the table and her head was
lowered with the effect of some small animal prepared for a spring.
'Do you know,' she said, 'he wore silk shirts? Silk shirts! and I had
only one set of underclothing in the world! I had to wash them
overnight. That was my father--a Mallett! Were they all like that?'

There was silence until Caroline, peeling an apple with trembling
fingers, said severely, 'I don't think we need continue this
conversation.' Her indignation was beyond mere words; she was