She entered Christabel’s room calmly, smiling and prepared for news, but at the first sight of the invalid, lying very low in her bed and barely turning her head at the sound of the opening door, she thought that perhaps Christabel’s weakness had at last overcome her enmity.
“I’m very ill,” she said faintly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, don’t say that. You may as well tell the truth—to me.”
“Then I must say again that I am sorry.”
“I wonder why.”
To that Rose made no answer, and before Christabel spoke again she had time to notice that the cat had gone. She breathed more easily. The cat had gone, the trees were going and Francis was going too. Suddenly she felt she did not care. The idea of an empty world was pleasant, but if Francis were really going, the cat might as well have stayed.
“Tell me what you did in Scotland,” Christabel said.
“I showed Henrietta all the sights.”
“Oh, Henrietta—she’s a horrid girl. She has stopped coming to see me.”