were not so dazzled by the light that she did not immediately
recognize her aunt. It was Francis Sales who hesitated and Rose said
quickly, 'Oh, please shut the door.'

He obeyed and stood by Henrietta's side, a pleasing figure, looking
taller and more finely made in his black clothes.

'Have you been on the terrace?'

'Yes, it's a glorious night.'

'You'll get cold,' Charles said severely. She had been out there with
the man who murdered music and who, therefore, was a scoundrel, and
Charles's objection was based on that fact and not on Francis Sales's
married state. He had not the pleasure of feeling a pious indignation
that a man with an invalid wife walked on the terrace with Henrietta.
He would have said, 'Why not?' and he would have found an excuse for
any man in the beauty, the wonder, the enchantment of that girl,
though he could not forgive Henrietta for her friendship with the
slaughterer of music and of birds.

He glared and repeated, 'You'll be ill.'

Henrietta pretended not to hear him, and Rose said thoughtfully and
slowly, 'Oh, no, Charles, people don't get cold when they are happy.'

'I suppose not.' He felt in a vague way that he and Rose, sitting
there, for he had forgotten to stand up, were united against the other
two who stood, very clear, against the gold-embossed wall of the room,
and that those two were conscious of the antagonism. They also were