They were standing together in the hall and against the white panelled
walls, the figure of Rose, in the austere riding habit, one
gauntletted hand holding her crop, the other resting lightly on her
hip, had an heroic aspect, like a statue in dark marble; but her eyes
did not offer the blank gaze, the calm effrontery of stone: they
looked at Henrietta with something like appeal against this obsession
of the cat.

'Oh, I'm glad the cat's gone,' Henrietta murmured. 'What happened to
it?'

Rose shook her head. 'It disappeared.'

They stared at each other until Henrietta said, 'But all the same, I
don't want to go.' And then, because Rose would not help her out, she
was obliged to say, 'It's Mr. Sales.' Her voice dropped. 'I haven't
seen him since I hit him.'

Rose turned to go upstairs. 'I shouldn't think too much of that.'

'You don't think it matters?'

'No.'

Henrietta looked after her and followed her for a step. 'You think I
may go?' Her voice was dull under her effort to control it. She felt
that the stately figure moving up the stairs was deliberately leaving
her to face a danger, sanctioning her desire to meet it. She felt her
fate was in the answer made by Rose.