“Very well,” she said, kindly.  “Is that a nice book you have?  ’Arabian Nights?’ Then sit and read it quietly till you go to bed.  Good-night, my dear.”

She kissed her, which was always a slight effort; it was hard work loving Titia, who was so cold and prim, and unchildlike, with so little responsiveness in her nature.

“I hope all is safe for today,” thought Christian, anxiously, and determined to speak to Titia’s father the first opportunity.  He was dining in hall today, and afterward they were to go to the long-delayed entertainment at the vice chancellor’s, which was to inaugurate her entrance into Avonsbridge society.

Miss Gascoigne was full of it; and during all the time that the three ladies were dining together, she talked incessantly, so that, even had she wished, Mrs. Grey could not have got in a single word of inquiry concerning Miss Bennett.  She however, judged it best to wait quietly till the cloth was removed and Barker vanished.

Christian was not what is termed a “transparent” character; that is, she could “keep herself to herself,” as the phrase is, better than most people.  It was partly from habit, having lived so long in what was worse than loneliness, under circumstances when she was obliged to maintain the utmost and most cautious silence upon every thing, and partly because her own strong nature prevented the necessity of letting her mind and feelings bubble over on all occasions and to every body, as is the manner of weaker but yet very amiable women.  But, on the other hand, though she could keep a secret sacredly, rigidly—­so rigidly as to prevent people’s even guessing that there was a secret to be kept, she disliked unnecessary mysteries and small deceptions exceedingly.  She saw no use and no good in them.  They seemed to her only the petty follies of petty minds.  She had no patience with them, and would take no trouble about them.

So, as soon as the ladies were alone, she said to Miss Gascoigne outright, without showing either hesitation or annoyance.

“I met Miss Bennett in the hall to-day.  Why did you not tell me that you and Aunt Maria had chosen a governess for Letitia?”

Sometimes nothing puzzles very clever people so much as a piece of direct simplicity.  Aunt Henrietta actually blushed.

“Chosen a governess?  Well, so we did!  We were obliged to do it.  And you were so much occupied with Arthur.  Indeed, I must say,” recovering herself from the defensive into the offensive position, “that the way you made yourself a perfect slave to that child, to the neglect of all your other duties, was—­”

“Never mind that now, please.  Just tell me about Miss Bennett.  When did she come, and how did you hear of her?”

She spoke quite gently, in mere inquiry; she was so anxious neither to give nor to take offense, if it could possibly be avoided.  She bore always in mind a sentence her husband had once quoted—­and, though a clergyman, he did not often quote the Bible, he only lived it:  “As much as in you lieth, live peaceably with all men.”  But she sometimes wondered, with a kind of sad satire, whether the same could ever, under any circumstances, be done with all women.