At Odiam Rose shook off her seriousness. Supper was ready, and undaunted by the huge meal she had already eaten, she sat down to it with a hearty appetite. Her step-children stared at her curiously—Rose had a gust of affection for them. Poor things!—their lives had been so crude and dull and innocent. She must give them a little brightness now, soften the yoke of Reuben's tyranny—that girl Caro, for instance, she must give her some pretty clothes and show her how to arrange her hair becomingly.
Supper was a very gay meal—the gayest there had ever been at Odiam. Rose laughed and talked, as at Starvecrow, and soon her husband and the boys were laughing with her. Some of the things she said were rather daring, and Caro had only a dim idea of what she meant, but Rose's eyes rolling mischievously under the long lashes, and the tip of her tongue showing between her lips, gave her words a devilish bite even if only half understood. Somehow the whole atmosphere of the Odiam kitchen was changed—it was like the lifting of a curtain, the glimpsing of a life where all was gay, where love and ambition and all solemn things were the stuff of laughter.
The boys beat the handles of their knives on the table and rolled in their chairs with wide-open mouths as if they would burst; Reuben leaned back with a great pride and softening in his eyes, round which many hard lines had traced themselves of late; Caro's lips were parted and she seemed half enchanted, half bewildered by the other woman's careless merriment. Only Harry took no interest and looked dissatisfied—"Another wedding," he mumbled as he dribbled his food unnoticed over the cloth—"we're always having weddings in this house."
It was strange that during this gay meal the strongest link was forged between Rose and Caro. Two natures more utterly unlike it would be hard to find—Caro's starved ignorance of love and aged familiarity with dustier matters made her the antithesis of Rose, a child in all things save those of the affections; but the two women's hearts met in their laughter. It was Rose who invited, Caro who responded, for Rose in spite of her years and inexperience had the one advantage which made her the older of the two. She was drawn to Caro partly from essential kindness, partly because she appreciated the luxury of pitying her—Caro responded with all the shy devotion of a warped nature going out towards one who enjoys that for which it unconsciously pines. Rose's beauty, jollity, and happiness made her a goddess to the less fortunate girl.
After supper Rose turned towards her.
"Will you come up and help me unpack?"
Caro flushed with pleasure—a light had kindled in her grey life, and she found herself looking forward to days of basking.
They went up together to the huge low-raftered bedroom, which struck horribly cold.
"Ugh!" said Rose—"no fire!"
"But it's a bedroom."