There was a certain humour about the situation, and for Rose an
impeding feeling of hypocrisy. Here she was, determined to put
obstacles on the primrose path where she herself once had dallied. It
looked like the envy of age for youth, it looked like inclining to
virtue because the opposite was no longer possible for her, like tardy
loyalty to Christabel; but she must not be hampered by appearances.

Her chief fear was of hardening Henrietta's temper, and she came to
the conclusion that she must appeal to Francis Sales himself. It was
an unpleasant task and, she dimly felt, she hardly knew why, a
dangerous one; and meeting Henrietta that day at meals or in the
hushed quiet of the passages, she felt herself a traitor to the girl.
After all, what right had she to interfere? She had no right, and her
double excuse was her knowledge of Francis Sales' character and her
certainty that Henrietta was chiefly moved by her dramatic instinct.
And again Rose wished that the hair of Charles Batty's head were
thicker and that he could supply the counter-attraction needed; but
she might at least be able to use him; there was no one else.

That night, after an evening spent in soothing Sophia's fears which
had been roused by the unnatural gentleness of Caroline, and treating
Henrietta to all the friendliness she would receive, Rose went out to
post a letter to Francis Sales. She had asked him, with an irony she
had no doubt he would miss, to meet her in the hollow where the
gipsies had encamped and where so many of their interviews had taken
place. It was within a few yards of that bank of primroses where he
had asked her to marry him.

Caroline was better the next morning and it was easy for Rose to
escape. She chose to ride. It was one of those mild January days which