There was a moment’s silence.

“Hester is my sister,” said Mr. Gresley, “and I am fond of her in spite of all, and she has no one to look to for help and guidance but me.  I am her only near relation.  That is why I feel so much the way she disregards all I say.  She does not realize that it is for her sake I speak.”

Mr. Gresley thought he was sincere, because he was touched.

Mrs. Gresley’s cheek burned.  That faithful, devoted little heart, which lived only for her husband and children, could not brook—­what? That her priest should be grieved and disregarded?  Or was it any affection for and interest in another woman that it could not brook?

“I have made up my mind,” said Mr. Gresley, “to forbid her most solemnly when she comes back to-morrow to publish that book.”

“She does not come back to-morrow, but this evening,” said the young wife; and pushed by some violent, nameless feeling which was too strong for her, she added, “She will not obey you.  When has she ever listened to what you say?  She will laugh at you, James.  She always laughs at you.  And the book will be published all the same.”

“It shall not,” said Mr. Gresley, coloring darkly.  “I shall not allow it.”

“You can’t prevent it,” said Mrs. Gresley, her breath coming quickly.  She was not thinking of the book at all, but of the writer.  What was a book, one more or one less?  It was her duty to speak the truth to her husband.  His sister, whom he thought so much of, had no respect for his opinion, and he ought to know it.  Mr. Gresley did know it, but he felt no particular satisfaction in his wife’s presentment of the fact.

“It is no use saying I can’t prevent it,” he said, coldly, letting his arm fall by his side.  He was no longer thinking of the book either, but of the disregard of his opinion, nay, of his authority, which had long gravelled him in his sister’s attitude towards him.  “I shall use my authority when I see fit, and if I have so far used persuasion rather than authority, it was only because, in my humble opinion, it was the wisest course.”

“It has always failed,” said Mrs. Gresley, stung by the slackening of his arm.  Yes.  In spite of the new baby, she would rather have a hundred a year less than have this woman in the house.  The wife ought to come first.  By first, Mrs. Gresley meant without a second.  She had this morning seen Emma laying Hester’s clean clothes on her bed, just returned from a distant washer-woman whom the Gresleys did not employ, and whom they had not wished Hester to employ.  The sight of those two white dressing-gowns, beautifully “got up” with goffered frills, had aroused afresh in Mrs. Gresley what she believed to be indignation at Hester’s extravagance, an indignation which had been increased when she caught sight of her own untidy wrapper over her chair.  She always appeared to disadvantage in Hester’s presence.  The old smouldering grievance about the washing set a light to other feelings.  They caught.  They burned.  They had been drying in the oven a long time.