She was a woman given to thoughtfulness, for all that she used her tongue freely when with those she liked.  She did not greatly seek such society as Dunfield had to offer, and partly on that account, partly owing to alarms excited by her caustic comments on matters of popular interest, the ladies of the town left her abundance of leisure.  She used it well.  Though not a highly-educated woman, she read constantly, and books of a solid kind.  Society in Dunfield had its book club, and Mrs. Baxendale enjoyed the advantage of choosing literature which her fellow-members were very willing to let her keep as long as she liked.  Beatrice derived much amusement from her aunt’s method of reading.  Beatrice, with the run of Mr. Mudie’s catalogues, would have half-a-dozen volumes in her lap at the same time, and as often as not get through them—­tant bien que mal—­in the same day.  But to the provincial lady a book was a solid and serious affair.  To read a chapter was to have provided matter for a day’s reflection; the marker was put at the place where reading had ceased, and the book was not re-opened till previous matter had been thoroughly digested and assimilated.  It was a slow method, but not without its advantages, I assure you.

Perhaps to relieve her worthy aunt of any lingering anxiousness, Beatrice, throughout the day, wore an appearance of much contentment, and to Wilfrid was especially condescending, even talking with him freely on a subject quite unconnected with her pet interests.  That evening two gentlemen, politicians, dined at the house; Beatrice, under cover of their loud discussions in the drawing-room, exchanged certain remarks with Wilfrid.

‘My aunt was so good as to apologise to me on your behalf this morning,’ she began.

‘Apologise?  What have I been guilty of?’

’Oh, nothing.  She doesn’t appreciate the freemasonry between us.  It occurred to her that your remarks on my—­well, my predilections, might have troubled me.  Judge how amused I was!’

She did not look at him from the first, and appeared to be examining, even whilst she spoke, a book of prints.

‘I sincerely hope,’ Wilfrid replied, ’that I have uttered no thoughtless piece of rudeness.  If I have, I beg you to forgive me.’

She glanced at him.  He appeared to speak seriously, and it was the kind of speech he would never have dreamed of making to her in former days, at all events in this tone.

‘You know perfectly well,’ she answered, with slow voice, bending to look more closely at a page, ’that you never said anything to me which could call for apology.’

‘I am not so sure of that,’ Wilfrid replied, smiling.

‘Then take my assurance now,’ said Beatrice, closing her book, and rising to move towards her aunt.  As she went, she cast a look back, a look of curious blankness, as if into vacancy.