you.'

'I won't stay to-day,' Rose said. She was shaking with the anger she
suppressed.

'But if you don't,' Christabel cried, 'he'll want to know why. He'll
ask me!'

'I can't help that,' Rose said.

Tears came into Christabel's eyes. 'You might at least do that for
me.'

'Very well. Because you ask me.'

'And you'll come again soon?'

The sternness of Rose's face was broken by an ironic smile. 'Of
course! If you are sure you want me!'

She went downstairs and, as usual, Francis was waiting for her in the
matted hall. He did not greet her with a word or a smile. He watched
her descend the shallow flight, and together they went down the
passage to the clear drawing-room, where the faded water-colours
looked unreal and innocent and ignorant of tragedy.

'What's the matter?' he asked.

'Nothing.' She looked into the oval mirror which had so often
reflected his mother's placid face. 'My hat's a little crooked,' she