They kissed Rose; they both kissed Henrietta on each cheek.
“A little dance,” Caroline repeated, and patted Henrietta’s arm. “Good child,” she murmured.
Henrietta went upstairs behind them, slowly, not to overtake Sophia. She did not want to be left down there with Aunt Rose. She wanted solitude, and she knew now what people meant when they talked of being in a dream. Under her hand the slim mahogany rail felt like the cold, firm hand of Francis Sales when, after their last dance together, he had led her on to the terrace again. They were alone there, for the wind was very cold, but for Henrietta it was part of the exquisite mantle in which she was wrapped. She was wrapped in the glamour of the night and the stars and the excitement of the dance, yet suddenly, looking down at the dark river, she was chilled. She said, and her voice seemed to be carried off by the wind, “Aunt Rose is going to take me away.”
He bent down to her. “What did you say?”
She put her lips close to his ear. “Aunt Rose is going to take me away.”
He dropped her hand. “She can’t do that.”
“But she will. I shall have to go,” and he said gloomily, “I knew you would leave me, too.” She felt helpless and lonely: her happiness had gone; the wind had risen. She said loudly, “It’s not my fault. What can I do? I shall come back.”
He stood quite still and did not look at her. “You don’t think of me.”
“I think of nothing else. How can I tell her I can’t leave you? She has been good to me.”
“She was once good to me, too. That won’t last long.”