During the rest of the day the look of question in Rosalie’s eyes changed in its nature.  When her sister was near her she found herself glancing at her with a new feeling.  It was a growing feeling, which gradually became—­anxiousness.  Betty presented to her the aspect of one withdrawn into some remote space.  She was not living this day as her days were usually lived.  She did not sit still or stroll about the gardens quietly.  The consecutiveness of her action seemed broken.  She did one thing after another, as if she must fill each moment.  This was not her Betty.  Lady Anstruthers watched and thought until, in the end, a new pained fear began to creep slowly into her mind, and make her feel as if she were slightly trembling though her hands did not shake.  She did not dare to allow herself to think the thing she knew she was on the brink of thinking.  She thrust it away from her, and tried not to think at all.  Her Betty—­her splendid Betty, whom nothing could hurt—­who could not be touched by any awful thing—­her dear Betty!

In the afternoon she saw her write notes steadily for an hour, then she went out into the stables and visited the horses, talked to the coachman and to her own groom.  She was very kind to a village boy who had been recently taken on as an additional assistant in the stable, and who was rather frightened and shy.  She knew his mother, who had a large family, and she had, indeed, given the boy his place that he might be trained under the great Mr. Buckham, who was coachman and head of the stables.  She said encouraging things which quite cheered him, and she spoke privately to Mr. Buckham about him.  Then she walked in the park a little, but not for long.  When she came back Rosalie was waiting for her.

“I want to take a long drive,” she said.  “I feel restless.  Will you come with me, Betty?” Yes, she would go with her, so Buckham brought the landau with its pair of big horses, and they rolled down the avenue, and into the smooth, white high road.  He took them far—­past the great marshes, between miles of bared hedges, past farms and scattered cottages.  Sometimes he turned into lanes, where the hedges were closer to each other, and where, here and there, they caught sight of new points of view between trees.  Betty was glad to feel Rosy’s slim body near her side, and she was conscious that it gradually seemed to draw closer and closer.  Then Rosy’s hand slipped into hers and held it softly on her lap.

When they drove together in this way they were usually both of them rather silent and quiet, but now Rosalie spoke of many things—­of Ughtred, of Nigel, of the Dunholms, of New York, and their father and mother.

“I want to talk because I’m nervous, I think,” she said half apologetically.  “I do not want to sit still and think too much—­of father’s coming.  You don’t mind my talking, do you, Betty?”

“No,” Betty answered.  “It is good for you and for me.”  And she met the pressure of Rosy’s hand halfway.