solitude, and she knew now what people meant when they talked of being
in a dream. Under her hand the slim mahogany rail felt like the cold,
firm hand of Francis Sales when, after their last dance together, he
had led her on to the terrace again. They were alone there, for the
wind was very cold, but for Henrietta it was part of the exquisite
mantle in which she was wrapped. She was wrapped in the glamour of the
night and the stars and the excitement of the dance, yet suddenly,
looking down at the dark river, she was chilled. She said, and her
voice seemed to be carried off by the wind, 'Aunt Rose is going to
take me away.'

He bent down to her. 'What did you say?'

She put her lips close to his ear. 'Aunt Rose is going to take me
away.'

He dropped her hand. 'She can't do that.'

'But she will. I shall have to go,' and he said gloomily, 'I knew you
would leave me, too.' She felt helpless and lonely: her happiness had
gone; the wind had risen. She said loudly, 'It's not my fault. What
can I do? I shall come back.'

He stood quite still and did not look at her. 'You don't think of me.'

'I think of nothing else. How can I tell her I can't leave you? She
has been good to me.'

'She was once good to me, too. That won't last long.'