room in which she felt less at ease: perhaps she had been prejudiced
by Aunt Rose's words about the cat, but that seemed absurd and she was
confused by her vague feelings of anger and pity and suspicion.

However, she did her best to be a pleasant guest. She had somehow to
break the tenseness in the room and she called on her reserve of
anecdote. She told the story of Mr. Jenkins trying to fetch his boots
and catch a glimpse of Mrs. Banks's daily help who could cook but had
no character; she described the stickiness of his collar; and because
she was always readily responsive to her surroundings, she found it
natural to be humorous in a somewhat spiteful way; and at a casual
mention of the Battys, she became amusing at the expense of Charles
and felt a slight regret when she had roused Christabel's laughter. It
seemed unkind; he had confided in her; she had betrayed him; and Rose
completed her discomfiture by saying, 'Ah, don't laugh at poor
Charles. He feels too much.'

Christabel nodded her head. 'Your aunt is very sympathetic. She
understands men.' She added quickly, 'Have you met my husband?'

'No,' Henrietta said, 'I've only seen your carts.'

The two women laughed and it was strange to hear them united in that
mirth. Henrietta looked puzzled. 'Well,' she explained, 'it was one of
the first things I noticed. It stuck in my head.' Naturally the
impressions of that day had been unusually vivid and she saw with
painful clearness the figure of the man on the horse, as enduring as
though it had been executed in bronze yet animated by ardent life.

'Well,' Christabel said, 'you are to have tea with the owner of the