She was always sure of her welcome at Prospect House, and though she often assured herself that she could love no one but Francis Sales, that was no reason why others should not love her. From that point of view John Batty was a failure. He took her to a cricket match, but finding that she did not know the alphabet of the game, and was more interested in the spectators than in the players, he gave her up. He admired her appearance, but it did not make amends for ignorance of such a grossness; and, equally displeased with him, she returned home alone while he watched out the match.
The next day when she paid her usual Sunday visit, she ignored him pointedly and mentally crossed him off her list. Charles, ugly and odd, was infinitely more responsive, though he greeted her on this occasion with reproach.
“You went to a cricket match yesterday with John.”
“It was very boring and I got a headache. I shall never go again.”
Henrietta smiled subtly, implying a good deal.
“I shouldn’t have thought,” Charles went on mournfully, “of suggesting such a thing.”
“My aunts were rather shocked. I went on the top of a tramcar with him.”
“But if you can go out with him, why shouldn’t you go out with me?”
“But where?” Henrietta questioned practically.
“When there is one. I don’t know. They won’t have one in this God-forsaken place until the autumn.”
He spread his hands. “You see, I never have any luck. I just want you to promise.”
“It will be the first time I’ve been anywhere with a girl,” he said. “I don’t get on.”
He sighed. “Yes, but not much.” Her laughter, which was so pretty, startled him; it also delighted him with its music, and his sad eyes grew wider and more vague. He had an inspiration. “I’ll take you home now.”
“I’m not going home. I’ve promised to go to Sales Hall.”
“Sales Hall—oh, yes, he’s the man who talks at concerts—when he goes. I know him. Have you ever wanted to murder anyone? I’ve wanted to murder him. I might some day. You’d better warn him.”
Was this another strand in the web of her drama, she wondered. Was Aunt Rose involved in this too? She breathed quickly. “Why, what has he done to you?”
He ground his teeth, looking terrible but ineffectual. “Stolen beauty. That’s what his sort does. He kills lovely things that fly and run, for sport, and he steals beauty, spoils it.”