“Shall you do, then?” said Miss Gascoigne, after a slight pause; for she did not expect such resistance from the young, pale, passive creature, about whom, for the last few days she had rather changed her mind, and treated with a patronizing consideration, for Aunt Henrietta liked to patronize; it pleased her egotism; besides, she was shrewd enough to see that an elegant, handsome girl, married to the Master of Saint Bede’s, was sure soon to be taken up by somebody; better, perhaps; by her own connections than by strangers.  So—­more blandly than might have been expected—­she asked, “What shall you do?”

“What seems to me—­as I think it will to Dr. Grey”—­with a timid glance at him, and a wish she had found courage to speak to him first on this matter, “the only right thing I can do.  Not to drag my friends into society where they would not feel at home, and which would only look down upon them, but to make them understand clearly that I—­and my husband—­do not look down upon them; that we respect them, and remember their kindness.  We may not ask Mr. Ferguson to dinner—­he would find little to say to University dons; and as for his wife”—­she could not forbear a secret smile at the thought of the poor dear woman, with her voluble affectionateness and her gowns of all colors, beside the stately, frigid, perfectly dressed, and unexceptionably—­mannered Miss Gascoigne—­“whether or not Mrs. Ferguson is invited to the series of parties that you are planning, I shall go and see her, and she shall come to see me, as often as ever I please.”

This speech, which began steadily enough, ended with a shaky voice and flashing eye, which, the moment it met Dr. Grey’s, gravely watching her, sank immediately.

“That is,” she added gently, “If my husband has no objection.”

“None,” he said, but drew ink and paper to him, and sat down to write a note, which he afterward handed over to Christian, then addressing his sister-in-law, “I have invited Mr. and Mrs. Ferguson to dine with us—­ just ourselves, as you and Maria will be out—­at six o’clock to-morrow.  And oh!”—­with a weary look, as if he were not so insensible to this petty domestic martyrdom as people imagined—­“do, Henrietta, let us have a little peace.”

It was in vain.  Even Dr. Grey’s influence could not heal the wounded egotism of this unfortunate lady.

“Peace!  Do you mean to say that it is I who make dispeace!  But if you, having known what a good, obedient wife really is, can submit to such unwarrantable dictation; and if I, or Maria, your own sister (Maria, why don’t you speak?), can not offer one word of advice to a young person, who, as might be expected, is entirely ignorant of the usages of society—­is, in fact, a perfect child—­”

“She is my wife!” said Dr. Grey, so suddenly and decisively that even Christian, who had been reading the note with a grateful heart for kindness shown for her sake, involuntarily started.