“Ah, poor boy,” Sophia said. “I think, Rose dear, it would be kind to ask him here.”
“Oh, he knows he can come when he likes,” Rose said.
On the other side of the table Henrietta was shaking delicately. She could only have got relief by inarticulate noises and insanely violent movements. She hated Francis Sales, she hated Rose and Sophia and Charles Batty. She would not go to the concert—yes, she would go and make Charles miserable. She was enraged at the folly of her own remark, at Rose’s self-possession, and at her possible possession of Francis Sales. She could not unsay what she had said and, having said it, she did not know how to go on living with Aunt Rose; but she was going to Wellsborough again and this time she need not come back: yet she must come back to see Francis Sales. And though there was no one in the world to whom she could express the torment of her mind she could, at least, make Charles unhappy.
Rose and Sophia were chatting pleasantly, and Henrietta pushed back her chair. “Will you excuse me? I have to catch a train.”
Rose inclined her head: Sophia said, “Yes, dear, go. Where did you say you were going?”
“To Wellsborough.”
“Ah, yes. Caroline and I—Be careful to get into a ladies’ carriage, Henrietta.”
“I’m going with Charles Batty,” she said dully.
“Ah, then, you will be safe.”
Safe! Yes, she was perfectly safe with Charles. He would sit with his hands hanging between his knees and stare. She was sick of him and, if she dared, she would whisper during the music; at any rate, she would shuffle her feet and make a noise with the programme. And to-morrow she would emulate her aunt and waylay Francis Sales. There would be no harm in copying Aunt Rose, a pattern of conduct! She had done it before, she would do it again and they would see which one of them was to be victorious at the last.