remind herself that Henrietta had no weapon but her eyes.

It was those eyes Francis Sales chiefly remembered when he had parted
from Henrietta and turned homewards. There had been scorn in them,
anger, grief, jealousy and expectation. If she had not been so small,
if they had not been raised to his, if he could have looked levelly
into them as he did into the clear grey eyes of Rose, things might
have been different. But she was little and she had clung to him,
looking up. She had told him she could never see her Aunt Rose again.
How could she? Was he sure he did not love Rose still? Was he sure? He
ought to be, for it was he who had made Henrietta love him. He had
liked that tribute too much to contradict it, but Rose Mallett was
right: whoever had been the promoter of this business, it was not fair
to Henrietta, and the thought of Rose, so white and straight, was like
wind after a sultry day. She was like a church, he thought; a dim
church with tall pillars losing themselves in the loftiness of the
roof; yes, that was what was the matter with her: she was cold, but
there was no one like her, you could not forget her even in the warmth
of Henrietta's presence. One way and another, these Malletts tortured
him.

He walked home, trying to find some way out of this maze of promises
to Henrietta and of self-reproach, and his mental wanderings were
interrupted by an unwelcome request from the nurse that he should go
at once to Mrs. Sales. She seemed, the woman warned him, to be very
much excited: would he please be careful? She must not have another
heart attack.

As he entered the room, it seemed to him that he had been treading on
egg-shells all his life, but a sudden pity swept him at the sight of