For a member of a large and lively family this prospect, seen from a
permanent couch, was not exhilarating, but Christabel did not
complain: she took advantage of every incident and made the most of
it, but she never expressed a desire for more. She had, for so frail
and shattered a body, an amazing capacity for endurance, as though she
were upheld by some spiritual force. It might have been religion or
love, or the desire to perpetuate Francis's admiration, but Rose
believed, and hated herself for believing, that it was partly
antagonism and a feverish curiosity. She had been cheated of her youth
and strength, and here, with a beautiful, impassive face, was the
woman who might have saved her, a woman with a body strongly slim in
her dark habit, and firm white hands skilled in managing a horse. She
had read the grey mare's mind, and now Christabel, delicately blue and
pink and white, in a wrapper of silk and lace, her hands fidgeting
each other as they had fidgeted the mare's mouth, thought she was
reading the mind of Rose. She stared at her, fascinated but not
afraid. There were things she must find out.

She asked one day, and it was nearly two years since the accident,
'Did they kill the mare?' And Rose, aware that Christabel had known
all the time, answered, 'Yes, at once. Her leg was broken.'

'What a pity!'

Waiting for what would come next, Rose smiled and looked out of the
window at the swaying elm tops.

'Such a useful animal!' Christabel said.

'Very dangerous,' Rose remarked, slipping deliberately into the trap.