smells and rabbits which he loved and which he denied himself for the
greater part of each day because he loved his mistress more, but he
jumped down to greet Rose with a great wagging of his tail.

She stooped to him, saying, 'Here is Henrietta, Christabel. Henrietta,
this is Mrs. Sales.'

The woman on the couch looked to Henrietta like a doll animated by
some diabolically clever mechanism, she was so pink and blue and fair.
She was, in fact, a child's idea of feminine beauty and Henrietta felt
a rush of sorrow that she should have to lie there, day after day,
watching the seasons come and go. It was marvellous that she had
courage enough to smile, and she said at once, 'Rose Mallett is always
trying to give me pleasure,' and her tone, her glance at Rose,
startled Henrietta as much as if the little thin hand outside the
coverlet had suddenly produced a glittering toy which had its uses as
a dagger. She, too, looked at Rose, but Rose was talking to the dog
and it was then that Henrietta became really aware of the cat. It was
certainly listening; it had stretched out its fore-paws and revealed
shining, nail-like claws, and those polished instruments seemed to
match the words which still floated on the warm air of the room.

'And now she has brought you,' Christabel went on. 'It was kind of you
to come. Do sit here beside me. Tell me what you think of Rose. Tell
me what you think,' she laughed, 'of your aunt. She's beautiful, isn't
she?'

'Yes, very,' Henrietta said, and she spoke coldly, because she, too,
was a Mallett, and she suspected this praise uttered in Rose's hearing
and still with that sharpness as of knives. She had never been in a