“I don’t know,” Sophia murmured. “She had such character. You never believed her, did you, Henrietta, when she made out she had been—had been indiscreet?”
“No, I never believed it.”
“I’m glad of that. It was a fancy of hers. I encouraged her in it, I’m afraid; but it made her happy, it pleased her and it did no harm. I suppose nobody believed her, but she didn’t know. I don’t think I’ll sit here doing nothing, Henrietta. I suppose I ought to go through her papers. She never destroyed a letter. I might begin on them.”
“Oh, do you think you’d better? Don’t you like just to sit here and talk to me?”
“No, no, I must not give way. I’m not the only one. There’s poor Francis Sales. If he’d married Rose—I always planned that he should marry Rose—and of course, we ought not to think of such things so soon, but the thought has come to me that they may marry after all.”
Henrietta tightened the clasp of the hands on her knee and said, “Why do you think that?”
“It would be suitable,” Sophia said.
“But she’s so old. Haven’t you noticed how old she has looked lately?”
“Old? Rose old?” Sophia’s manner became almost haughty. “Rose has nothing to do with age. My only doubt is whether Francis Sales is worthy of her. Dear Caroline used to say she ought to—to marry a king.”
“And she hasn’t married anybody,” Henrietta remarked bitingly.