“Avery!” repeated the Reverend Stephen, with brows elevated.  “I presume you are talking of Mrs. Denys?”

“Yes, dear.  I call her Avery.  I feel her to be almost one of ourselves.”  There was just a hint of apology in Mrs. Lorimer’s voice.  “She has been—­and is—­so very kind to me,” she said.  “I really don’t know what the children and I would do without her.”

“I am glad to hear she is kind,” said Mr. Lorimer, with a touch of acidity.

“My dearest, she is quite our equal in position,” murmured Mrs. Lorimer.

“That may be, my dear Adelaide.”  The acidity developed into a note of displeasure.  “In a sense doubtless we are all equal.  But in spite of that, extremes of intimacy are often inadvisable.  I do not think you are altogether discreet in making a bosom friend of a woman in Mrs. Denys’s position.  A very good woman, I grant you.  But familiarity with her is altogether unsuitable.  From my own experience of her I am convinced that she would very soon presume upon it.”

He paused.  Mrs. Lorimer said nothing.  She was sitting motionless with her soft eyes on the fire.

Mr. Lorimer looked down at the brown head at his knee with growing severity.  “You will, therefore, Adelaide, in deference to my wish—­if for no other reason—­discontinue this use of Mrs. Denys’s Christian name.”

Mrs. Lorimer’s lips moved, but they said nothing.

“Adelaide!” He spoke with cold surprise.

Instantly her fingers tightened upon his with a grip that was almost passionate.  She raised her head, and looked up at him with earnest, pleading eyes.  “I am sorry, Stephen—­dear Stephen—­but I have already given my friendship to—­to Mrs. Denys.  She has been—­she is—­like a sister to me.  So you see, I can’t possibly take it away again.  You would not wish it if you knew.”

“If I knew!” repeated Mr. Lorimer, in a peculiar tone.

She turned her face from him again, but he leaned slowly forward in his chair and taking her chin between his finger and thumb turned it deliberately back again.

She shrank a little, but she did not resist him.  He looked searchingly into her eyes.  The lids flickered nervously under his gaze, but he did not relax his scrutiny.

“Well?” he said.

Her lips quivered.  She said nothing.

But her silence was enough.  He released her abruptly and dropped back in his chair without another word.

She sank down trembling against his knee, and there followed a most painful pause.  Through the stillness there crept again the faint strains of distant music.  Someone was playing the Soldiers’ March out of Faust on the old cracked schoolroom piano, which was rising nobly to the occasion.

Mr. Lorimer moved at length and turned his head.  “Who is that playing?”

“Piers Evesham,” whispered Mrs. Lorimer.  She was weeping softly and dared not stir lest he should discover the fact.