are too small. They spoil her.'

'No, you need not spy on us any more,' Henrietta said.

Francis made a movement of distaste. He said, as though the words cost
him much labour, 'Henrietta, don't.'

But there seemed to be no limit to what Rose could bear. She stooped
forward suddenly and put her cheek against the horse's neck in an
impulsive need to express affection, perhaps to get it.

'You think I don't understand,' she said quietly, 'but I do, too
well.' She paused, and in her overpowering sense of helplessness, of
distrust, she found herself making, without a quiver, the confession
of her own foolishness.

'I don't know whether Francis has told you that he and I were once in
love with one another. At least that is what we called it.' Very pale,
appearing to have grown thinner in that moment, she looked at the
horse's ears and spoke as though she and Henrietta were alone. 'Until
quite lately. Then he realized, we both realized, our mistake. But it
seems that Francis must have somebody to--to meet, to kiss. Between me
and you there has been some one else.' With a wave of her hand, she
put aside that thought. 'We used to meet here often. This place must
be full of memories for him. For me, the whole countryside is
scattered with little broken bits of love. It breaks so easily, or it
may be only the counterfeit that breaks. Anyhow, it broke, it chipped.
I thought you ought to know that.' She touched her horse with her heel
and turned down the lane. She went slowly, sitting very straight, but
she had the constant expectation of being shot in the back. She had to