“‘Modern Dissent,’” read aloud Mr. Gresley, “by Veritas.”

“Veritas!” repeated Hester.  Astonishment jerked the word out of her before she was aware.  She pulled herself hastily together.

“Certainly,” said the author, looking at his sister through his glasses, which made the pupils of his eyes look as large as the striped marbles on which Mary and Regie spent their pennies.  “Veritas,” he continued, “is a Latin word signifying Truth.”

“So I fancied.  But is not Truth rather a large name to adopt as a nom de guerre?  Might it not seem rather—­er—­in a layman it would appear arrogant.”

“I am not a layman, and I do not pretend to write on subjects of which I am ignorant,” said Mr. Gresley, with dignity.  “This is not a work of fiction.  I don’t imagine this, or fancy that, or invent the other.  I merely place before the public, forcibly, and in a novel manner, a few great truths.”

Mary was doing her finger exercises.  C, C, C, with the thumb; D, D, D, with the first finger, Fraeulein was repeating.  “Won! two! free!  Won! two! free!” with a new intonation of cheerful patience at each repetition.

“Ah!” said Hester.  “A few great truths.  Then the name must be ‘Veritas.’  You would not reconsider it?”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Gresley, his eye challenging hers.  “It is the name I am known by as the author of ‘Schism.’”

“I had momentarily forgotten ‘Schism,’” said Hester, dropping her glance.

“I went through a good deal of obloquy about ‘Schism,’” said Mr. Gresley with pride, “and I should not wonder if ‘Modern Dissent’ caused quite a ferment in Middleshire.  If it does, I am willing to bear a little spite and ill-will.  All history shows that truth is met at first by opposition.  Half the country clergy round here are asleep.  Good men, but lax.  They want waking up.  I said as much to the Bishop the other day, and he agreed with me; for he said that if some of his younger clergy could be waked up to a sense of their own arrogance and narrowness he would hold a public thanksgiving in the cathedral.  But he added that he thought nothing short of the last trump would do it.”

“I agree with him,” said Hester, having first said the sentence to herself, and having decided it was innocuous.

The climax of the music lesson had arrived.  “The Blue Bells of Scotland”—­the sole Clavier Stueck which Mary’s rigidly extended little starfishes of hands could wrench out of the school-room piano—­was at its third bar.

“Well,” said Mr. Gresley, refreshed by a cheering retrospect.  “Now for ‘Modern Dissent.’”

A strenuous hour ensued.

Hester was torn in different directions, at one moment tempted to allow the most flagrant passages to pass unchallenged rather than attempt the physical impossibility of interrupting the reader only to be drawn into a dispute with him, at another burning to save her brother from the consequences which wait on certain utterances.