It might have been at a dinner-party when Christabel, seated at the
right hand of a particularly facetious host, let out her high
chromatic laughter incessantly, and the hostess, leaning towards
Francis, told him with the tenderness of an elderly woman whose own
romance lies far behind her, that it was a pleasure to see Mrs. Sales
so happy. He murmured something in response and, as he looked up and
met the gaze of Rose, she smiled at him and saw his eyes darken with
feeling, or with thought.

After dinner he sought her out. She had known that would happen:
she had been avoiding it for weeks, but it was useless to play at
hide-and-seek with the inevitable, and she calmly watched him
approach.

'Why did you laugh?' he asked at once, in his old, angry fashion. 'You
were laughing at me.'

'No, I smiled.'

'Ah, you're not so free with your smiles that they have no meaning.'

'Perhaps not, but I don't know what the meaning was.'

'I believe you've been laughing at me ever since I came back.'

'Indeed, I haven't. Why should I?'

'God knows,' he answered with a shrug; 'I never do understand what
people laugh at.'