'Have you seen one lately?' Henrietta asked.

'What? A squirrel? No, not lately. They're shy. One doesn't see them
often.'

'Oh, then I was lucky,' Henrietta said. 'I saw one in those woods
we've just passed, the other day.' She looked at her Aunt Rose's
creamy cheek. There was no flush on it, her profile was serene, the
dark lashes did not stir.

'Soon,' Rose said, 'you will see hills and the channel.'

'And when shall we come to Mrs. Sales' house? Is she an old lady?'

'I don't think you would call her very old. She is younger than I am.'

'Oh, that's not old,' Henrietta said kindly. 'Has she any children?'

'No, there's a cat and a dog--especially a cat.'

'And a husband, I suppose?'

'Yes, a husband. Do you like cats, Henrietta?'

'They catch mice,' Henrietta said informatively.

'I don't think this one has ever caught a mouse, but it lies in wait--
for something. Cats are horrible; they listen.' And she added, as
though to herself, 'They frighten me.'