The sole was a direct answer to prayer.  Mrs. Gresley had been enabled to stifle her irritation against this delicate, whimsical, fine lady of a sister-in-law—­laced in, too, we must not forget that—­who, in Mrs. Gresley’s ideas, knew none of the real difficulties of life, its butcher’s bills, its monthly nurses, its constant watchfulness over delicate children, its long, long strain at two ends which won’t meet.  We must know but little of our fellow-creatures if the damp sole in the bag appears to us other than the outward and homely sign of an inward and spiritual conquest.

As such Hester saw it, and she kissed Mrs. Gresley and thanked her, and then ran, herself, to the kitchen with the peace offering, and came back with her sister-in-law’s down-at-heel in-door shoes.

Mr. Gresley was stabling his bicycle in the hall as she crossed it.  He was generally excessively jocose with his bicycle.  He frequently said, “Whoa, Emma!” to it.  But to-day he, too, was tired, and put Emma away in silence.

When Hester returned to the drawing-room Mrs. Gresley had recovered sufficiently to notice her surroundings.  She was sitting with her tan-stockinged feet firmly planted on the carpet instead of listlessly outstretched, her eyes ominously fixed on the tea-table and seed-cake.

Hester’s silly heart nudged her side like an accomplice.

“Who has been here to tea?” said Mrs. Gresley.  “I met the Pratts and the Thursbys in Westhope.”

Hester was frightened.  We need to be in the presence of those who judge others by themselves.

“The Bishop was here and Rachel West,” she said, coloring.  “They left a few minutes ago.”

“Well, of all unlucky things, that James and I should have been out.  James, do you hear that?  The Bishop’s been while we were away.  And I do declare, Hester,” looking again at the table, “you never so much as asked for the silver teapot.”

“I never thought of it,” said Hester, ruefully.  It was almost impossible to her to alter the habit of a lifetime, and to remember to dash out and hurriedly change the daily routine if visitors were present.  Lady Susan had always used her battered old silver teapot every day, and for the life of her Hester could not understand why there should be one kind one day and one kind another.  She glanced resentfully at the little brown earthen-ware vessel which she had wielded so carefully half an hour ago.  Why did she never remember the Gresleys’ wishes?

“Hester,” said Mrs. Gresley, suddenly, taking new note of Hester’s immaculate brown holland gown, which contrasted painfully with her own dilapidated pink shirt with hard collars and cuffs and imitation tie, tied for life in the shop where it was born.  “You are so smart; I do believe you knew they were coming.”

If there was one thing more than another which offended Hester, it was being told that she was smart.

“I trust I am never smart,” she replied, not with any touch of the haughtiness that some ignorant persons believe to be the grand manner, but with a subtle change of tone and carriage which seemed instantly to remove her to an enormous distance from the other woman with her insinuation and tan stockings.  Mrs. Gresley unconsciously drew in her feet.  “I did not know when I dressed this morning that the Bishop was coming to-day.”