“I can’t help that,” Rose said.
Tears came into Christabel’s eyes. “You might at least do that for me.”
“Very well. Because you ask me.”
“And you’ll come again soon?”
The sternness of Rose’s face was broken by an ironic smile. “Of course! If you are sure you want me!”
She went downstairs and, as usual, Francis was waiting for her in the matted hall. He did not greet her with a word or a smile. He watched her descend the shallow flight, and together they went down the passage to the clear drawing-room, where the faded water-colours looked unreal and innocent and ignorant of tragedy.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She looked into the oval mirror which had so often reflected his mother’s placid face. “My hat’s a little crooked,” she said.
He laughed without mirth. “Never in its life. Has Christabel been worrying you?”
“Worrying me? Poor child—”