On the second day, Christine was again left to fend for herself, and Raoul was still sick in bed. She thought that her acceptance and her lack of questions had gained her favor among the upper servants. She didn't know how that would do her good, but it couldn't hurt. Yet she was used to a great deal of activity, to long rehearsals, and the stillness quickly chafed. She knew nothing of cooking, but Mme. Henri had proved her kindness, so Christine was not afraid to ask for something to do. Washing dishes and peeling potatoes were hardly so glamorous as leading roles, but it kept her busy. She worked hard and was very glad to sleep that night without dreams.

The next day, she was scrubbing pots when Raoul burst into the kitchen. He was pale and his eyes over-bright, but he looked well. When he swept her into his arms, Christine fought back tears. With her head laid against his chest, it was almost possible to believe in happy endings.

"What are you doing down here?" he asked, and then, before she had a chance to answer, "I can't believe they put you downstairs with the servants!" He hugged her again. "You're all right. You're all right."

He made her stop cleaning, over her own protests and Mme. Henri's smile. So she was with Raoul in the beautiful sitting room, drinking tea, when the Chagnys came home. The Comtesse cried out and ran to her son. Tears stood in her eyes as she examined him, then flung her arms around him once she was satisfied that he was whole. The Comte stood back, quietly watching everything. Christine became horribly aware of her plain, ill-fitting dress.

Like their servants, like their son, the Comte and Comtesse were very kind to her. Raoul's mother pressed her hand warmly. They both agreed readily that she should move from the servants' quarters into a guest room, although Christine protested. At that, both parents glanced at her sharply and, she thought, with approval. Raoul, as ever, was full of grand ideas. His version of events at the Opéra was highly colored. It was very complimentary of her and damning of the Angel. Christine felt uncomfortable. The Comtesse praised her for her bravery, and the Comte declared the whole business improper. In Raoul's version, her tears convinced the Phantom to let them go. It was curious, but probably wise, that he left out the kiss.

Raoul talked a great deal, his mother somewhat less, and the Comte and Christine hardly at all. Christine thought that she was best off in silence. These people could do much to hurt her if she offended them. She knew very little of how aristocrats behaved; they seemed kind, but she was too tired, her nerves still too raw, to trust them. Thus, she found herself crying, "No!" when Raoul abruptly changed the subject and insisted on setting a wedding date. Three blue-eyed gazes—one cool, one surprised, and one hurt—rested on her. She dropped her eyes to her fingers, twisted together in her lap.

"Forgive me," she said, trying to pull her thoughts to order. "It's just … I mean …" and then Raoul was kneeling in front of her, his warm hands wrapped around hers. His poor dear face was so heartbroken. "This is too soon, Raoul. I have been so frightened for so long, and now I am without a home"—he opened his mouth to protest, so she said more firmly, "without a home, Raoul, and every possession in the world gone. I hardly know what to think or how to feel. It's too big a decision to make right now."

Raoul told her that he would think for her, that he would take care of her and that she needn't worry, until his mother stopped him. She drew him away and stuck a cup of tea in his hand.

"She's quite right," the Comtesse said, and handed Christine some tea as well. "The two of you have had a horrid fright, and you, son, are still not well. I can see it in your face. You both need quiet and time to compose your thoughts. Come now. This has been a terrible ordeal. You must have time to recover." Christine felt as if she had passed a test, but not necessarily one she would have wanted.