“What was the matter to-night?”
“Hints,” Henrietta whispered. “Hints,” and she added nervously, “about you.”
Rose made a slight movement. “Don’t tell me.”
“And the cat. I ran away. She was crying, but I didn’t care. I ran all down the avenue on to the road. Mr. Sales had said he would take me home, but I didn’t wait. It was much better under the sky. Then I heard footsteps, and it was Mr. Sales running after me.” She paused. Two stairs above her, Aunt Rose stood, listening with attention. She was, as usual, all black and white; her neck, rising from the black lace, looked like a bowl of cream laid out of doors to cool in the night.
“He kissed me,” Henrietta said abruptly.
Rose did not move, and before she spoke Henrietta had time to wonder what had prompted her to that confession. She had not thought about it, the words had simply issued of themselves.
“Kissed you?”
“Yes,” Henrietta said, and suddenly she wanted to make it easier for Aunt Rose. “I think he was sorry for me. I told him I was unhappy, but I couldn’t tell him why, I couldn’t say it was his wife. I think he meant it kindly.”
“I am sure he did,” Rose said with admirable self-possession. “You look very young in that big hat, you are very young, and perhaps he guessed what you had been through. Don’t think about it any more.”
“No.” Henrietta seemed to have no control over her tongue. “But then, you see, I hit him.”