Mrs. Batty took Sophia to a seat under a tree and Henrietta stood for a moment in the blazing sunlight alone. Where was Aunt Rose? Henrietta looked round and had a glimpse of that slim black form moving among the rose-trees with Francis Sales. He had simply carried her off! It was disgraceful, and things seemed to repeat themselves for ever. Aunt Rose, with her look of having lost everything, still succeeded in possessing, while Henrietta was alone. She had no place in the world. John’s affianced bride was busy among the guests, like a daughter of the house, a slobbering bulldog at her heels; and Henrietta, isolated on the lawn, was overcome by her own forlornness. It had been very different at the ball. And how queer life was! It was just a succession of days, that was all: little things happened and the days went on; big things happened and seemed to change the world, but nothing was really changed, and a whole life could be spent with a moment’s happiness or despair for its only marks.
Henrietta, rather impressed by the depths of her own thoughts, moved through the garden. Where was Charles? She wanted to see him and get their meeting over, but there was not a sign of him and, avoiding the croquet players and that shady corner where elderly ladies were clustered near the band, the same band which had played at the ball, Henrietta found herself in the kitchen garden. She examined the gooseberry bushes and strawberry beds with apparent interest, unwilling to join the guests and still more unwilling to be found alone in this deserted state. It was very hot. The open door of a little shed showed her a dim and cool interior; she peeped in and stepped back with an exclamation. Something had moved in there. It might be a rat or one of John’s ferocious terriers, but a voice said quietly, “It’s only me.”
She stepped forward. “What are you doing in there?”
“Getting cool,” Charles said. “I thought nobody would find me. Won’t you come in? It’s rather dirty in here, but it’s cool, and you can’t hear the band. I’ve been sitting on the handle of the wheelbarrow, so that’s clean, anyhow. I’ll wipe it with my handkerchief to make sure.”
“But where are you going to sit?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“There’s room on the other handle.”
Henrietta sat with her knees between the shafts, and he sat on the other handle with his back to her.
“We can’t stay here long,” she said.
“No,” Charles agreed.