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"You're within your rights, of course."
The miserable scene dragged on a little longer. Frederica cried and
pleaded and stormed, without moving him at all. He seemed distressed at
her grief, urged her to treat his request as if he hadn't made it; but
he explained nothing, answered none of her questions.
It was an enormous relief to her, and, she fancied, to him, for that
matter, when, after a premonitory knock at the door, Harriet walked in
on them.
The situation didn't need much explaining, but Frederica summed it up
while the others exchanged their coolly friendly greetings, with the
statement:
"Rod's been trying to get me to go to Rose and say that it was all his
fault, and I won't."
"Why not?" said Harriet. "What earthly thing does it matter whose fault
it is? He can have it his fault if he likes."
"You know it isn't," Frederica muttered rebelliously.
Harriet seated herself delicately and deliberately in one of the curving
ends of a little Victorian sofa, and stretched her slim legs out in
front of her.


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