'That's what I mean. But not quite dangerous enough. Poor Francis! He
didn't know. He doesn't know now, does he? But of course not.'

Rose had a great horror of a debt and she owed something to
Christabel, but now she felt she had paid it off, with interest. She
breathed deeply, without a sound. Her tone was light.

'He knows all that is good for him.'

'You mean that is good for you.'

Rose stood up, pulled on her washleather gloves, sat down again. The
hands on the silk coverlet were shaking.

'You are making yourself ill,' Rose said. She was tempted to take
those poor fluttering hands into her own and steady them, but her
flesh shrank from the contact. She was tempted, too, to tell
Christabel the truth, but pride forbade her, and in a moment the
impulse was gone, and with its departure came the belief that the
truth would be annihilating. It would rob her of her glorious
uncertainty, she would be destroyed by the knowledge that Rose had
seen her fear, seen and tried to strengthen the slender hold she had
on her husband's love. It was better to play the part of the wicked
woman, the murderess, the stealer of hearts: and perhaps she was
wicked; she had not thought of that before; the Malletts did not
criticize their actions or analyse their minds and she had no
intention of breaking their habits. She stood up again and said:

'Shall I call the nurse?'