'Really?' Rose said, taking toast.

'He has sent orders for part of the house to be done up.'

Rose raised her eyes. 'Ah, she's hurt,' Sophia thought, but Rose
merely said, 'If he touches the drawing-room or the study I shall
never forgive him'; and then, thoughtfully, she added, 'but he won't
touch the drawing-room.'

'H'm, he'll do what his wife tells him, I imagine. No girl will
appreciate Mrs. Sales's washy paintings.'

'Rose would,' Sophia sighed.

'Yes, I do,' Rose said cheerfully. She was too cheerful for Sophia's
romantic little theory, but an acuter audience would have found her
too cheerful for herself. She had overdone it by half a tone, but the
exaggeration was too fine for any ears but her own. She was, as a
matter of fact, in the grip of a violent anger. She was not the kind
of woman to resent the new affections of a rejected lover, but she
had, through her own folly, attached herself to Francis Sales, as,
less unreasonably, his tears had once attached him to her, and the
immaterial nature of the bond composed its strength. Consciously
foolish as her thoughts had been, they became at that breakfast table,
with the water bubbling in the spirit kettle and the faint crunch of
Caroline eating toast, intensely real, and she was angry both with
herself and with his unfaithfulness. She did not love him--how could
she?--but he belonged to her; and now, if this piece of gossip turned
out to be true, she must share him with another. Jealousy, in its
usual sense, she had none as yet, but she had forged a chain she was