“You are very good!  I never had a piano of my own before.  And I hope Miss Gascoigne will enjoy it as much as I shall myself.”

The soft, answer—­never wasted upon fiercest wrath—­threw a little oil upon Miss Gascoigne’s.  She spoke no more, but she resolutely turned her back upon the offending instrument.  Christian struck a few chords, just to please her husband, and came away.

It was an uncomfortable tea-party—­not nearly so merry as Arthur’s first.  After it, the boy wearily curled up on the sofa to sleep, and his father glanced round in search of his best friend—­the big book.

Stop a minute, Dr. Grey; before you retire to your study, as you always seem to do whenever all your family happen to be met socially together, I have to ask you about that invitation to St. Mary’s Lodge which came this morning.’’

Dr. Grey paused, and listened to a long explanation, ending in the decision (to which Christian passively submitted, for what must be done had best be done quickly) that he and his bride should make their long-delayed public appearance in Avonsbridge society at an evening party shortly to be given by the Master of St. Mary’s.

“It is a musical party,” explained Miss Gascoigne, when, Dr. Grey having quitted the room, Christian, for want of something to converse about, began to make a few polite inquiries concerning it.  “So you have got your piano just in time, and may practice all day long, to be ready for your performance.  Of course you will be asked to perform, since every body knows about your father and his musical genius.  By-the-by, I met lately a gentleman who said he knew Mr. Oakley, and was exceedingly surprised—­at which I must confess I scarcely wondered—­ when he heard who it was that my brother-in-law had married.”

“Oh, Henrietta!” pleaded poor Aunt Maria, with her most troubled look.  But it was too late.  Even Christian—­quiet as her temper was, and strong her resolution to keep peace, at any price which cost nobody any thing excepting herself—­was roused at last.

“Miss Gascoigne,” she said, and her eyes blazed and her whole figure dilated, “when your brother married me, he did it of his own free choice.  He loved me.  Whatever I was, he loved me.  And whatever I may be now, I at least know his dignity and my own too well to submit to be spoken to, or spoken of, in this manner.  It is not of the slightest moment to me who among your acquaintances criticises myself or my marriage, only I beg to be spared the information afterward.  For my father”—­she gulped down a great agony, a sorrow darker than that of death—­“he was my father.  You had better be silent concerning him.”

Miss Gascoigne was silent—­for a few minutes.  Perhaps she was a little startled, almost frightened—­many a torturer is a great coward—­by the sight of that white face, its every feature trembling with righteous indignation or, perhaps, some touch of nature in the hard woman’s heart pleaded against this unwomanly persecution of one who bad never injured her.  But she could not hold her peace for long.