'I'm more afraid of dogs,' Henrietta said.

'Oh, but you mustn't be.'

'Well,' Henrietta dared, 'you're afraid of cats.'

'I know, but dogs, they seem to be part of one's inheritance--dogs and
horses.'

'All the horses I've known,' Henrietta said with her odd bitterness,
'have been in cabs, and even then I never knew them well.'

'Francis Sales must show you his,' Rose said. 'There are the hills.
Now we turn to the left, but down that track and across the fields is
the short cut to Sales Hall. One can ride that way.'

'I should like to see the dairy,' Henrietta remarked, 'or do they
pretend they haven't one?'

Rose smiled. 'No, they're very proud of it. It's a model dairy. I've
no doubt Francis will be glad to show you that, too. And here we are.'

The masculine hall, with its smell of tobacco, leather and tweed, the
low winding staircase covered with matting, its walls adorned with
sporting prints, was a strange introduction to the room in which
Henrietta found herself. She had an impression of richness and colour;
the carpet was very soft, the hangings were of silk, a fire burned in
the grate though the day was warm and before the fire lay the cat. The
dog was on the window-sill looking out at the glorious world, full of