No one took any notice. Sophia, drooping her heavy head, was thinking of brigands in a far country and of Caroline and herself left in Nelson Lodge without Rose and without Henrietta. If they really went away she determined to tell Henrietta the story of her lover, lest she should die and the tale be unrecorded. She wanted somebody to know; she would tell Henrietta on the eve of her departure, among the bags and boxes. He had gone to America and died there, and that continent was both sacred to her and abhorrent.
“Don’t go to America,” she murmured.
“Why not?” Caroline demanded. “Just the place they ought to go to. Lots of millionaires.”
Rose reassured Sophia. “And it is only an idea. I haven’t said a word to Henrietta.”
Henrietta showed no enthusiasm for the suggestion. She liked Radstowe. And there was the Battys’ ball. It would be a pity to miss that. She must certainly not miss that, said Caroline and Sophia. And what was she going to wear? They had better go upstairs at once, to the elder ladies’ room, and see what could be done with Caroline’s pink satin. She had only worn it once, years ago. Nobody would remember it, and trimmed with some of her mother’s lace, the big flounce and the fichu, it would be a different thing. Sophia could wear her apricot.
“Come along, Henrietta. Come along, Rose. We must really get this settled.”
They went upstairs, Caroline moving with heavy dignity, but keeping up her head as she had been taught in her youth. Nothing was more unbecoming than ducking the head and sticking out the back. Sophia went slowly, holding to the balustrade, so very slowly that Henrietta did not attempt to start. She said softly to Rose, “How slowly she goes. I’ve never noticed it before.”
“She always goes upstairs like that,” Rose said. “It is not natural to her to hurry.”
Henrietta followed and found Sophia panting a little on the landing. She laid hold of her niece’s arm. “A little out of breath,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything, dear child, to Caroline. She doesn’t like to be reminded of our age.”
They went into the bedroom and Rose, drifting into her own room, heard the opening of the great wardrobe doors. She would be called in presently for her advice, but there would be a lot of talk and many reminiscences before she was needed. She stood by the fire, which, giving the only light to the room, threw golden patches on the white dressing-gown lying across a chair, and made the buckles on her shoes sparkle like diamonds.