Mr. Aylett had—­accidentally, it would seem—­his wife understood that the action was premeditated—­stationed himself at an angle to the piano that allowed him a fair view of her, and did not grudge the merriest bachelor there his share of enjoyment, while he could keep furtive watch upon the changeful countenance, the Sappho-like head, and the delicate hands which one could have thought made the music, rather than did the obedient keys they touched.  The wedded lovers had taste and pride in equal proportions, and a parade of their satisfaction in one another for the edification or amusement of indifferent spectators would have been revolting to both, but the ray that sped from half-averted eyes, from time to time, and was returned by a kindling glance, also shot sidelong beneath dropped lashes, said more to each other than would a quarto volume of stereotyped protestations and caresses, such as Tom Barksdale dealt out profusely to his beauteous Imogene.  Clearly, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Winston Aylett was fond of sugar-candy.

Mabel’s faith in the sincerity of her sister-in-law’s agreeable sayings and ways was not invariable nor absolute.  She liked her after a certain fashion; got along swimmingly with her, the amazed public decided “So much better than could have been expected, and than was customary with relations by marriage, and not by descent;” yet her more upright nature and different training helped her to detect the petty artifices with which Clara cajoled the unwary, moulded the plastic at her will.  But she had never questioned the reality of her love for Winston.  As a wife, her deportment was exemplary, her devotion too freely and consistently rendered to have its spring in policy or affectation.  She gloried in her handsome, courtly lord, and in his attachment for herself.  Whether she would have espied the same causes for loving exultation in him, had he been a poor clergyman or merchant’s clerk, was an irrelevant consideration.  The master of Ridgeley was not to be contemplated apart from the possessions and dignities that were his inalienable pedestal.  Clara Dorrance was a clever woman, and she had given these due weight in accepting his hand; and they may have had their influence in moving her to unceasing, yet unobtrusive endeavor to make herself still more necessary to his happiness, to strengthen her hold upon him by every means an affectionate and beloved wife has at her command.  She had done well for herself—­she was thinking while he concluded as silently within himself that the slight pensiveness tempering the expressive face was its loveliest dress.