And, to her own surprise, when her first bewilderment was over, Christian really did feel happy.  Her artistic temperament rejoiced in the mere beauty of the scene before her—­a scene to be found nowhere out of Avonsbridge—­lofty, grand old rooms, resplendent with innumerable wax-lights; filled, but not too full, with an ever-moving, gorgeously-colored crowd.  Quite different from that of ordinary soirées, where the coup d’oeil is that of a bed of variegated flowers, with a tribe of black emmets posed on their hind legs inserted between.  Here the gentlemen made as goodly a show as the ladies, or more so, many of them being in such picturesque costumes that they might have just stepped down from the old pictures which covered the walls.  In-numerable flowing gowns, of all shapes and colors, marked the college dons; then there were the gayly-clad gentlemen commoners, and two or three young noblemen, equally fine; while, painfully near the door, a few meek-looking undergraduates struggled under the high honor of the vice chancellor’s hospitality.

As to the women, few were young, and none particularly lovely yet Christian enjoyed looking at them.  Actually, for the first time in her life, did she behold “full dress”—­the sparkle of diamonds, the delicate beauty of old point lace, the rustle of gorgeous silks and satins.  She liked it—­childishly liked it.  It was a piece of art—­a picture, in the interest of which her own part therein was utterly and satisfactorily forgotten.  She was so amused with watching other people that she never thought whether other people were watching her; and when, after half an hour’s disappearance among a crowd of gentlemen, her husband came up and asked her if she were enjoying herself, she answered “Oh, so much!” with an ardor that made him smile.

And she did enjoy herself, even though a good many people were brought up to her and introduced, and by their not too brilliant remarks on it somewhat tarnished the brilliancy of the scene.  But also she had some pleasant conversation with people far greater and grander and cleverer than she had ever met in her life; who, nevertheless, did not awe her at all, but led her on to talk, and to feel pleasure in talking; she being utterly unaware that her simple unconsciousness was making her ten times more charming, more beautiful than before, and that round the room were passing and repassing innumerable flattering comments on the young wife of the Master of Saint Bede’s.

Only she thought once or twice, with an amused wonder, which had yet some sadness in it, how little these people would have thought of her a year before—­how completely they would ignore her now if she were not Dr. Grey’s wife.  And there came into her heart such a gush of—­ gratitude was it?—­to that good man who had loved her just as she was—­ poor Christian Oakley, governess and orphan—­in that saddest state of orphanage which is conscious that all the world would say she had need to be thankful for the same.  She looked round for her husband several times, but missing him—­and it felt a want, among all those strange faces—­she sat down by Miss Gascoigne, who, taking the turn of the tide, now patronized “my sister, Mrs. Grey,” in the most overwhelming manner.