in the new and alien world which was now all her home.  When Miss Goldsworthy proposed to go out into a situation, not to “be in the way of” the new wife, and when her brother would have approved the plan as only right and proper (and as facilitating his schemes for the raising of the “tone” of his establishment to Redford level), Mary protested vehemently and with tears, the only occasion of her showing a Pennycuick spirit since renouncing the Pennycuick name.  The old maid, for her part, was enthusiastically devoted to the new sister-in-law, whom it was her joy to pet and coddle.  “I can be of use to her,” she tremblingly commended herself to her brother.  “I can take the drudgery of the housework off her, and save her in the parish.”  “Well, perhaps so,” said Mr Goldsworthy.  And, sincerely desiring to endear himself to his aristocratic wife, he consented to her wish.

The whole Goldsworthy family was transferred to Redford, while, on the pretext of disinfecting it, the parsonage was painted and papered what Deb called “decently”, and its more offensive furniture replaced.  Mary was provided with a trousseau and many useful wedding presents, a cheque from her father for 500 pounds amongst them.  They did not forgive her, but they pretended excellently that they did.  Without any pretence at all, they tried to make the best of a bad job.  To this end, they gathered their friends together as usual at Christmas.  Mr Thornycroft and the Urquharts needed no pressing; they came to see Mary the day she returned home, and showed her the old affection without asking questions.  Mr Thornycroft’s wedding presents to her were magnificent—­a complete service of silver plate and house linen of the finest.  Deb wrote to Claud:  “I suppose we shall see you, as usual?”—­ for he had always spent Christmas at Redford unless away on the other side of the world.  He wrote back:  “I think not, this time.”  He was the only defaulter.

“He will never have a chance to refuse again,” said Deb fiercely, as she tore up his note.

His absence was too marked not to provoke frequent comment, and whenever it was alluded to in her hearing, her spine stiffened and her head went up.  It was quite evident to her family that the rift in the lute was serious, and strange to say, it was her father, who might have been expected to hail the signs, who was most concerned to see them.  He expostulated with her when she spoke bitterly of Billy’s son, as once he had been so ready to do himself.

“Well, my dear,” said he, “I can understand it, if you can’t.  I wouldn’t come myself, if I was in his place, to mix-up with the sort of thing we’ve got to mix up with.”

“If I can mix up with it—!” quoth proud Deborah.

“Yes, yes—­I know; but you must consider the silly way that he’s been reared.  I don’t like his taking upon himself to criticise what we choose to do; but no doubt Goldsworthy is a pretty big pill to swallow—­to a chap like him, always so faddy about breeding and manners, and that sort of thing.”