“Thank you,” said Christian, somewhat haughtily, till touched by the mild deprecation of that foolish, gentle face, so gentle as half to atone for its foolishness.

“You see, my dear, your marriage was much worse to her than to me, because Mrs. Grey was her own sister, while Arnold is my brother.  And all I want in the wide world is to see my brother happy.  I hope it isn’t wrong of me, but I don’t think quite as dear Henrietta does.  I always felt that dear Arnold might marry any body he pleased, and I should be sure to love her if only she made him happy.  But, hush!  I hear somebody coming.”

And the poor little lady composed herself into some pretense of indifference when Christian rose from the windowsill, and stood like a queen—­or rather like what she tried to say to herself, so as to keep up her matronly dignity, whenever passionate, girlish grief or anger threatened to break it down, “like Dr. Grey’s wife.”

Miss Gascoigne stopped benignly, much to Christian’s surprise, for she did not guess what a wonderful influence clothes have in calming down ill tempers.  And Miss Gascoigne was beautifully dressed—­quite perfect from top to toe; and she was such a handsome woman still, that it was quite a pleasure to look at her, as she very well knew.  She had come direct from her mirror, and was complacent accordingly.  Also, she felt that domestic decorum must be preserved on the “at home” day.

“That is a very pretty dress you have on; I suppose Dr. Grey bought it in London?”

“Yes.”

“Did he choose it likewise?”

“I believe so.”

“My sister always chose her own dresses; but then she paid for them too.  She had a little income of her own, which is a very good thing for a wife to have.”

“A very good thing.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Grey, I scarcely expected you to think so.”

“I think,” said Christian, firmly, though for the moment the silk gown seemed to burn her arms, and the pearl brooch and lace collar to weigh like lead on her bosom, “I think that in any true marriage it does not signify one jot whether the husband or the wife has the money.  Shall we go down stairs?”

There was time for the hot cheek to cool and the angry heart to be stilled a little before the visitors came.

Miss Gascoigne had truly remarked that the master’s wife was unaccustomed to society—­that society which forms the staple of all provincial towns, well dressed, well mannered, well informed.  But it seemed to Christian as if these ladies, though thoroughly ladylike in manner, which was very grateful to her innate sense of refinement, all dressed after one fashion, and talked mostly about the same things.  To her, ungifted with the blessed faculty of small talk, the conversation appeared somewhat frivolous, unreal, and uninteresting.  She hardly knew what to say or how to say it, yet was painfully conscious that her every word and every look were being sharply criticised, either in the character of Edward Oakley’s daughter or Dr. Grey’s wife.