“But not before the child.”
“You’re a prude, Sophia, and if Henrietta imagines that a man like Francis Sales, any man worth his salt—besides, Henrietta has knocked about the world. She is no more innocent than she looks.”
“She doesn’t mean half she says,” Sophia whispered.
“And neither is Francis Sales,” Caroline persisted. “Ridiculous! Dark roads, indeed! I don’t think I care for your wandering about at night, Henrietta.”
“I won’t do it again,” Henrietta said meekly.
“Sophia and I—” Caroline began one of her reminiscences, to which neither Sophia nor Henrietta listened. To the one, they were familiar in their exaggeration, and the other had her own thoughts, which were bewilderingly confused.
She had meant to stand between Francis Sales and Aunt Rose; later she had wished to help them, now she did not know whether she wanted to help or hinder. The thing was too much for her, but she wondered if Aunt Rose had ever experienced such a kiss. Meeting her a few minutes later on the stairs, with her slim hand on the polished rail, a beautiful satin-shod foot gleaming below the lace of her dress, she seemed a being too ethereal for a salute so earthly, and because she looked so lovely, because Christabel had been unjust, Henrietta forgot to feel unfriendly.
Rose said unexpectedly, “Oh, Henrietta, I am glad you have come back. You seem to have been away for a long time.”
“I went to the Battys’ to tea and then to Sales Hall. I promised Mrs. Sales. Do you mind?”
“Of course not; but I missed you.”