the kitten, both growing staid, for company. It tired her to use her
hands, she had never cared for reading and she lay there with little
for consolation but her pride in stoically bearing pain.

Often, and with many interruptions, she made Rose repeat the details
of the accident.

'I was riding well, wasn't I?' she would ask. 'Francis was pleased
with me. He said so. It wasn't my fault, was it? And then, when they
were carrying me home did you hear what he said? Tell me what he
said.'

And Rose told her: 'He said, "My God, she has got pluck!" Oh,
Christabel, don't talk about it.'

'I like to,' she replied, but the day came when she insisted on this
subject for the last time.

'Tell me what you thought when you saw me on the mare,' she said, and
Rose, careless for once, answered immediately, 'I thought she wasn't
fit for you to ride.'

'Ah,' Christabel said slowly, 'did you? Did you? But you didn't say
anything. That was--queer.'

Rose said nothing. She was frozen dumb and there was no possible reply
to such an implication; but she rose and drew on her gloves. She
looked tall and straight in her habit, and formidable.

'Are you going? But you must have tea with Francis. He's expecting