ou hated her and was only leading you on that she
might strike her claws into you the deeper. The great beautiful cat: that
was what Rosalind was. You didn't trust her for a moment.

She was pouring out tea.

"Lemon? But how dreadfully stupid of me! I'd forgotten you take
milk ... oh yes, and sugar...."

She rang, and ordered sugar. Mothers take it; not the mothers of
Rosalind's world, but mothers' meetings, and school treats, and
mothers-in-law up from the seaside.

"Are you up for shopping? How thrilling! Where have you been?... Oh, High
Street. Did you _find_ anything there?"

Mrs. Hilary knew that Rosalind would see her off, hung over with dozens
of parcels, and despise them, knowing that if they were so many they must
also be cheap.

"Oh, there's not much to be got there, of course," she said. "I got a
few little things--chiefly for my mother to give away in the parish. She
likes to have things...."

"But how noble of you both! I'm afraid I never rise to that. It's all I
can manage to give presents to myself and nearest rellies. And you came
up to town just to get presents for the parish! You're wonderful,
mother!"

"Oh, I take a day in town now and then. Why not? Everyone does."

Extraordinary how defiant Rosalind made one feel, prying and questioning
and trying to make one look absurd.

"Why, of course! It freshens you up, I expect; makes a change.... But
you've come up from Windover, haven't you, not the seaside?"

Rosalind always called St. Mary's Bay the seaside. To her our island
coasts were all one; the seaside was where you went to bathe, and she
hardly distinguished between north, south, east and west.

"How are they down at Windover? I heard that Nan was there, with that
young man of hers who performs good works. So unlike Nan herself! I hope
she isn't going to be so silly as to let it come to anything; they'd
both be miserable. But I should think Nan knows better than to marry a
square-toes. I daresay _he_ knows better too, really.... And how's poor
old Neville? I think this doctoring game of hers is simply a scream, the
poor old dear."

To hear Rosalind discussing Neville.... Messalina coarsely patronising a
wood-nymph ... the cat striking her claws into a singing bird.... And
poor--and old! Neville was, indeed, six years ahead of Rosalind, but she
looked the younger of the two, in her slim activity, and didn't need to
paint her face either. Mrs. Hilary all but said so.

"It is a great