“Oh, Caroline dear!” Sophia entreated.
“Discretion!” Caroline repeated firmly, and Mrs. Batty, bending forward stiffly because of her constricting clothes, and with a creak and rustle, ventured to ask in low tones, “Have you any news of Mr. Mallett lately?” The three elder ladies murmured together; Rose, indifferent, concerned with her own thoughts, ate a creamy cake. This was one of the conversations she had heard before and there was no need for her to listen.
She was roused by the departure of Mrs. Batty.
“Poor thing,” Caroline remarked as the door closed. “It’s a pity she has no daughter with an eye for colour. The roses in her hat were pale in comparison with her face. Why doesn’t she use a little powder, though I suppose that would turn her purple, and after all, she does very well considering what she is; but why, why did James Batty marry her? And he was one of our own friends! You remember the sensation at the time, Sophia?”
Sophia remembered very well. “She was a pretty girl, Caroline, and good-natured. She has lost her looks, but she still has a kind heart.”
“Personally I would rather keep my looks,” said Caroline, touching her fringe before the mirror. “And I never had a kind heart to cherish.”
Tenderly Sophia shook her head. “It isn’t true,” she whispered to Rose. “The kindest in the world. It’s just her way.”
Rose nodded understanding; then she stood up, tall and slim in her severe clothes, her high boots. The gilt clock on the mantelpiece said it was only five o’clock. There were five more hours before she could reasonably go to bed.
“Where did you ride to-day, dear?” Sophia asked.
“Over the bridge.” And to dissipate some of her boredom, she added, “I met Francis Sales. He thinks of going abroad.”