'If it's anything to do with me, I'm going to stay,' she said. 'If it
hasn't, I'll go.' She looked at Francis and added, between her teeth,
'But it must have.' Those words and that look claimed him for her own.

Rose lifted her chin and looked over the two heads, the uncovered one
of Francis Sales and Henrietta's, with her hat a little askew, and,
absurdly, Rose remembered that the child had washed her hair the night
before: that was why the hat was crooked and the curl loose, making
the scene undignified and funny above the pain of it. Rose spoke in a
voice heightened by a tone. 'It concerns you both,' she said.

'Ah, then, you needn't say it, need she, Francis?'

'Francis,' she repeated the name with a grave humour, 'this is not
fair to Henrietta.'

'I know that,' he muttered, and Rose saw Henrietta shoot at him a thin
look of scorn.

Henrietta said, 'But I don't care about that, and anyhow, we're not
going to do it any more. We're tired of these meetings'--she faced
him--'aren't we? We had just made up our minds to have no more of
them.'

'I'm glad of that,' said Rose, and she fancied that the hurried
beating of her heart must be plain through the thick stuff of her
coat.

Henrietta laughed, showing little teeth, and Rose thought, 'Her teeth