had those qualities, but mentally she lacked them; it was chiefly to
Rose that she betrayed herself, and at each farewell she exacted the
promise of another visit soon. Was she fascinated by the sight of the
woman Francis loved? And when had that love been discovered? And was
she sure of it even now? She certainly had her sole excitement in her
search for evidence.

In that bedroom, gaily decorated for a bride, she lay heroically
bearing pain, lacking the devotion she should have had, finding her
reward in the memory of her husband's appreciation of her courage, and
her occupation, perhaps her pleasure, in a refinement of self-torture.

As soon as Rose entered the room she was aware of the scrutiny of
those wary eyes, very wide open, as blue as flowers, and she knew that
her own face was like a mask. The little dog wagged his tail, the cat
made no sign, the nurse, after a cheerful greeting, went out of the
room and Rose took her accustomed place beside the window. It had a
view of the garden, the avenue of elms in which the rooks cawed
continuously, the hedge separating the fields from the high-road where
two-wheeled carts, laden with farm produce, jogged into Radstowe,
driven by an old man or a stout woman, and returned some hours later
with the day's shopping--kitchen utensils inadequately wrapped up and
glistening in the sunshine, a flimsy parcel of drapery, a box of
groceries. The old man smoked his pipe, the stout woman shook the
reins on the pony's back; the pony, regardless, went at his own pace.
Heavy farm carts creaked past, motor-cars whizzed by, the Sales Hall
dairy cows were driven in for milking, and then for a whole half hour
there might be nothing on the road. The country slept in the sunshine
or patiently endured the rain.