As Eugenia came downstairs the next morning, she met a small person toiling upward, one foot at a time. Eugenia loved children. She stopped at once and knelt down beside the little creature, the better to get sight of the face half hidden by the tangles of wavy hair.

“And who are you, dear?” she said, kindly. “One of my little nieces, I suppose.” She knew that Mrs Eyrecourt had children, but was ignorant how many or of what ages.

“I don’t know,” said the little girl, rather surlily. “I’m only Floss;” and she seemed eager to set off again on her journey upstairs.

“Floss? What a nice funny little name!” said her new aunt-in-law, detaining her gently. “Is it because you have got such pretty flossy hair that they call you so?”

“I don’t know,” said Floss again, but more amiably than before. “I didn’t know my hair was pwetty. Yours is,” touching Eugenia’s bright brown tresses as she spoke. “It shines so nice in the sun;” for it was a brilliant summer morning, and some sunbeams had found their way through the quaint pointed windows, lighting up the oak-panelled hall and wide, shallow-stepped staircase where the two were standing. “I like your hair,” pursued Floss, waxing confidential. “I don’t like light hair, nor I don’t like black.”

“Don’t you, dear? Why not?” asked Eugenia, amused at the oddity of the child.

“Don’t tell,” said the little girl, cautiously. “I don’t like light because mamma’s is light, and that other fat girl’s; and I don’t like black because Aunty Woma’s is black, and nurse’s.”

Eugenia was a little taken aback. Could the child be “quite right,” she wondered.

“Let me see your face, little Floss,” she said, pushing back the fair hair from the broad white forehead and raising the child’s head a little towards her. “Right!” – of course she was right. There was no want of intellect, or humour either, in the well-shaped little features and green-grey, twinkling eyes.

“You have got a nice face, Floss. Will you give me a kiss?” asked Eugenia. “But, do you know, when I was a little girl I didn’t say I didn’t like anybody.”

“I didn’t say that,” returned Floss. “I was only speaking of people’s hairs. I like you. You’re not fat, like that girl! Are you my new aunt? Nurse said my new aunt was coming. Sometimes I like nurse; but, do you know, she does pull my hair so when it is vewy tuggy! Will you tell me about when you was a little girl?”

“Yes, dear,” said Eugenia. “You shall come to my room, or perhaps you and I will go out into the garden together. Now I must run down quick to breakfast.”

She left the child with a kiss, but when she got to the dining-room door, happening to glance back again, there was the shaggy head pressed against the bannisters, the funny eyes peering down after her.

“What a queer little girl!” thought Eugenia. “I wonder if her mother was like her at her age? How odd it sounds to hear a child talking about not liking her nearest friends. I wonder if Mrs Eyrecourt and Roma dislike children?”

On the whole Eugenia had felt agreeably disappointed in her sister-in-law. Gertrude looked so young and pretty compared to what she had expected; there was nothing formidable about her.

“I dare say we shall get on very well,” thought the bride, quite satisfied with this reasonable anticipation. With all her impulsiveness she had never been given to sudden or vehement friendships, Sydney had been to her all that she wished for in this direction; but she was sincerely anxious to please her husband by responding cordially to whatever friendly overtures this sister of his, of whom he evidently thought so highly, might seem disposed to make. So far only one thing had repelled Eugenia; Mrs Eyrecourt had seemed almost to forget the night before what a complete stranger Beauchamp’s wife still was to all their family interests and connections.

“Or perhaps,” thought Eugenia, with a little pang, “she takes it for granted that I know more, that he has told me more than is the case. She may not know,” she added to herself, as if to suggest a ground of consolation, “how little opportunity there was for anything of the kind before we were married. And, after all, it was natural they should have a good deal to talk about, only seeing each other for one night and so much having happened since they met, and three are always an awkward party.”

Still no doubt she had felt a little lonely; and, inexperienced as she was, she had missed vaguely what she hardly knew she had expected – the being “made-of,” perhaps, as he would have been at home had Beauchamp taken her there for her first bridal visit instead of to Winsley – the sort of pleasant little temporary prestige that seems to come naturally to every young wife in the first blush of her new life. None of this had met her at Winsley. Tired as she was, she had dug deep down into one of her trunks to find the pretty simple bride-like dress which Sydney had begged her to keep fresh for the momentous occasion of “being introduced to Captain Chancellor’s friends;” but, so far as her two companions were concerned, it had seemed to Eugenia she might as well have kept on her travelling dress – better perhaps, for it was dark grey and would have seemed more in accordance with Mrs Eyrecourt’s deep mourning attire, which, it did strike her sister-in-law, she might for the first evening of their arrival have laid aside.

And all through dinner and through the evening that succeeded it, the conversation had not been about things in which the young wife could have easily taken part; about their travels, what they had seen etc, nor even about their future in a sense allowing her to make inquiries or remarks. It had been all about Halswood and the Chancellors and other people more or less concerned in the late changes in the family, but of whom Eugenia had never heard. And she had gone to bed at last tired and depressed, with a vague sort of feeling that she was a stranger and outsider, and a foolish, childish, vehement revolt against the life before her.

“I hate the very name of Halswood!” she said to herself, as she sadly unfastened the dress she had put on with some amount of pleasurable anticipation; “I have a conviction I shall not be happy there. I wish with all my heart that poor boy were alive again and that nothing of all this had come to Beauchamp.”

Her good sense, however, and previous experience prevented her expressing any of this to her husband; and her heart smote her a little when he kissed her as fondly as ever the next morning, and told her she had looked very pretty the night before, “he liked that dress.” Only he spoilt it a little by going on to remind her that she must see about mourning at once. Gertrude would advise her what to get and where to order it.

“Indeed she was a little surprised you had not thought of it in Paris. You could easily have left your orders and been fitted,” he said; “but, of course, as Gertrude remembered, you would not have known what dressmaker to go to, so perhaps it is as well as it is.”

Eugenia resisted the inclination to tell him that she felt quite equal to the management of her clothes without Mrs Eyrecourt’s assistance, and the momentary irritation passed away and she laughed at herself for having felt it. It was a bright morning, the view from her window was lovely, she had slept well, and she was only nineteen! It came naturally to her to take a more hopeful view of things than the night before, to make excuses for what had then appeared to her very wounding neglect, to think it after all possible that life might not be without its roses even at Halswood! Almost immediately after breakfast Captain Chancellor had to leave.

“It is such a lovely day, Beauchamp,” said Mrs Eyrecourt, “don’t you think it would be nice to drive to the station in the pony-carriage? I dare say you would like to drive him there, would you not?” she continued, turning to Eugenia. “My ponies are very good.”

“Thank you,” answered Mrs Chancellor, “I should like it very much, but I cannot drive.” She coloured a little, not so much from annoyance at having to confess her deficiencies, as from the consciousness of her sister-in-law’s eyes being fixed upon her in a sort of smiling, good-natured criticism. “I don’t know anything about horses,” she went on, in her nervousness falling into the unnecessary candour against which her husband had warned her. “I have never ridden or driven in my life. My father has no horses. We have never been accustomed to anything of the kind at Wareborough.”

“Oh indeed,” said Mrs Eyrecourt, urbanely.

But Captain Chancellor got up from his seat with a quick movement, which his wife had already learnt to interpret only too truly. This time, however, she fancied her eyes must have deceived her, for when he spoke his voice sounded as calm and softly modulated as usual.

“Yes,” he said, cheerfully, “that’s one of the accomplishments you must take up, Eugenia. You must give her some lessons, Gertrude. I don’t think you will find her a bad pupil; she has plenty of nerve, and that’s the great thing.”

Gertrude looked a little surprised, almost, Eugenia fancied, a very little disappointed, at her brother’s pleasant tone. But she recovered herself instantly.

“I shall be very glad indeed to teach Eugenia anything I know,” she said, amiably. “Not that I am half as good a whip as Roma.”

Eugenia hardly heard what she said, for the quick thrill of pleasure and gratitude that had shot through her on hearing her husband’s words had completely changed the current of her thoughts.

“How good and kind of Beauchamp to speak so of me,” she said to herself. “I wish I could remember not to show myself to disadvantage in that stupid way. I wish I were more dignified and reserved.”

She only saw him alone for an instant before he left. They were standing in the hall waiting for Mrs Eyrecourt, who was going to drive her ponies herself, as, probably, she had in her heart intended to do from the first.

“Beauchamp,” began Eugenia, eagerly, but in a low voice, looking round to see that no servant was within earshot, “Beauchamp, I did think it so kind of you to speak that way about my learning to drive. I was so afraid what I said might have annoyed you, like that day at the Luxembourg, for you see I haven’t got accustomed to not being over-communicative, but I really will – ”

“Don’t speak of it,” he interrupted, angrily, turning from her abruptly. “I expect next to hear you say you never saw silver forks and spoons before. How you can be so unutterably childish and silly, and so regardless of my feelings, Eugenia, passes my comprehension. Ah, Gertrude,” with a sudden, but complete, change of tone, as Mrs Eyrecourt appeared on the staircase, “there you are! I was just thinking of hurrying you; we have no time to spare,” and he hastened forward to hand his sister into the carriage.

Too startled at first to be fully conscious how deeply she was wounded, Eugenia mechanically followed them to the porch, stood there till they had driven off, smiling and nodding farewell.

And this was her first parting from her husband!

When the pony-carriage was out of sight Eugenia went up to her own room, and, locking the door against all possibility of intrusion, wept the bitter tears of youth when it first experiences what it is to be repulsed and scorned by the one it had deemed all sympathy and devotion, when the first terrible suspicion creeps in that it has been deceived in its idol. For none of the small jars in Paris had ended like this; she had felt them acutely at the time, but they had invariably been smoothed over again. But that Beauchamp should have spoken so harshly, so woundingly, just as he was leaving her, when there could be no opportunity of removing the sting his words had left – it was too cruel, and Eugenia’s tears flowed afresh.

In one respect she did him injustice. Before she was out of his sight her husband had repented of his harshness; the white, wounded look that had come over her sweet eager face followed him all the day, and had he not been afraid of Gertrude’s making fun of him he would have turned back at the lodge and begged Eugenia to forgive him before he left her. Still, at the same time, he remained fully satisfied that he had had cause for annoyance, and he quite believed that in the end Eugenia, like the rest of her sex, would be none the worse for a few sharp words.

By-and-by it occurred to Eugenia that her sister-in-law’s criticism of her red eyes was by no means to be desired. She set to work to bathe them, therefore, and then, the more effectually to remove their traces, she put on her hat and went out for a stroll. How pretty it was out of doors! The house, quaint and irregular, with its gables and latticed windows, was thoroughly to Eugenia’s liking; the grounds well kept, but not too modern in appearance to suit the ivy-grown Grange; the beauty of the midsummer sky, the fragrance of the sweet fresh summer-morning air, every object which caught her eye, every breath which wafted across her face seemed fall of harmony and content.

“How I wish I could feel happy too!” thought Eugenia.

And, after all, what a very small thing had caused her unhappiness, what a mere trifle had roused Beauchamp’s displeasure! That was the worst of it, she thought; if so very little made him angry, how could she hope to avoid incessantly irritating him? Yet he was not an ill-tempered man exactly – not so much ill-tempered as exacting and prejudiced.

“We have lived in such different worlds,” said Eugenia to herself, “that I suppose it is no wonder we do not at once understand each other’s feelings on all subjects. Perhaps in a little while I shall manage better, and, of course, before his sister little things may annoy him that would not otherwise do so, and it is nice of him to wish her to see everything about me in the best light. If only he had not gone away angry with me!”

Thus she tried to soften and excuse what had so pained her. She would not, even to herself, allow that she felt more than a passing disappointment; that Beauchamp himself was beginning to reveal a character less admirable, less lofty than her ideal, she was as yet far from owning. The triviality, and vulgarity even, of some of the prejudices and apprehensions he had avowed, she instinctively refrained from dwelling upon. She could not have understood them had she done so, for the excuses for her husband’s smallnesses – the struggling, anomalous circumstances in which the childhood and youth of the brother and sister had been spent, the triumph of Gertrude’s successful marriage and her determination that Beauchamp’s career should be a brilliant one – all these were unknown to Eugenia. She saw that he was considerably under his sister’s influence, much more so, indeed, than she had expected; but she attributed it to habit and association, knowing little of the greatness of the obligations which he owed to Mrs Eyrecourt.

And even had the whole history been related to her, all the details explained, it would have been of little service. Eugenia was far from the stage of being able to pity or judge leniently where she could not sympathise; and, indeed, any suggestion that there were deficiencies in her husband’s nature for which she must learn to “make allowance” she would still, at this time, have repelled with indignation; the hard lesson before her could be learnt by herself alone, and the hardest part would be that of recognising the good yet remaining in her lot, though the manner and form of it should be utterly different from the imagined bliss of her girlish dreams.

She was walking slowly up and down the terrace on the south side of the house – the same terrace which had been the scene of Roma’s unintentional eavesdropping – when a voice from behind startled her, a small, eager, childish voice.

“Aunty ’Genia,” it said, “Aunty ’Genia, I’ve wunned away from nurse and I want the stowy about when you was a little girl,” and from round the corner, running at full speed, appeared Floss, breathless and shaggier even than her wont.

“You’ve runned away from nurse, Floss?” said Eugenia, seating herself as she spoke on a garden bench beside her, and lifting the child on to her knee. “I don’t know that you should have done that. We had better find nurse first, or she won’t know where you are.”

“I don’t want her to know,” replied Floss, opening her eyes and establishing herself more securely in her present quarters; “that’s why I wunned away.”

She evidently was prepared to resist all recognition of established authority by her new friend; but nurse, less easily deluded than the tiny rebel had imagined, at this juncture fortunately made her appearance, proving by no means loth to accept a half-hour’s holiday.

“I will bring Miss Floss in myself,” said Eugenia. “You can show me the way to the nursery, can’t you, Floss?”

And nurse retreated, murmuring hopes that Mrs Chancellor would not find her charge too troublesome, and inwardly not a little astonished at the whimsical infant’s unwonted sociability.

Floss’s next proceeding was to peer up deliberately into her aunt’s eyes, pushing Eugenia’s hat back a little off her face, the better to pursue her investigations.

“What are you looking at, Floss?” asked her aunt. “I don’t like my hat at the back of my head; the sun makes my eyes ache.”

“Your eyes is wed,” observed Floss with satisfaction, quite ignoring Eugenia’s mild remonstrance. “You’ve been cwying. Why do you cwy? Aunt Woma never does.”

“Doesn’t she?” said Eugenia. “Perhaps she does, only you don’t see. Most people cry sometimes, when they are sorry.”

“And are you sowwy? I am sowwy if you are,” said the child, with a change to tenderness in her tone which Eugenia had not expected. “Have you been naughty and has somebody scolded you? I am vewy often scolded,” and she shook her head with a curious mixture of resignation and indifference.

“But you are a little girl, poor little Floss, and I am big,” said Eugenia, feeling the tears not very far off, however, notwithstanding her self-assertion; “big people aren’t scolded like children. Big people are sorry about other things.”

“Then I don’t want to be big,” said Floss, decidedly. “Now tell me about when you was little. How many dolls had you, and was your cat white or speckly like mine?”

“I had a great many dolls,” replied Eugenia, “but they weren’t all mine; they were between with my sister. But we had no cat.”

“What a pity!” said Floss, sympathisingly. “Wouldn’t your mamma let you?”

“I had no mamma,” said Eugenia; “only a papa and a sister.”

“A papa,” said Floss, consideringly. “I don’t know if papas is nice. Mammas isn’t, not always. How big was your sister – as big as Quin?”

“How big is Quin?”

“Vewy big,” said Floss, importantly. “He’s past nine. He’s away at school now.”

“And don’t you love him very much?”

“Yes, he’s a nice boy, only nurse says it’s a chance if school doesn’t spoil him. How could school spoil him? Mamma spoils him, nurse says.”

“I think nurse shouldn’t say so many things,” observed Eugenia, sagely. “But never mind about spoiling. Well, my little sister was very fond of me and I was very fond of her, and we learned our lessons together and had lots of dolls.”

“What was their names?” said Floss, nestling up closer on her aunt’s knee, in evident anticipation of something very delightful.

“Their names?” said Eugenia. “Why, let me see. There was Lady Evelina, she had blue eyes and light hair, and Lady Francesca, her sister, who had black eyes and hair; and then there were Flora and Lucy and Annette, all smaller dolls. And there was one doll we were very proud of, which a lady brought us from Paris, and we never called her anything but Poupée. And we had one dear old-fashioned wooden doll, with a merry face and red cheeks. We called her Mary Ann Jolly, and I almost think we loved her the best of all. Dear me,” she broke off abruptly, almost forgetting the presence of the child on her knee, “how strange it is to remember all these things! How silly and happy we were! So long ago!”

For “long ago” seem at nineteen the few short years dividing us from what we then call our childhood; though, further on our course, we look back and see that the childishness, the ignorance, the unreal estimates of ourselves and others were still clogging our steps, hindering our true progress – as, indeed, to a greater or less extent is the case to the very end of the toilsome journey. Happy those who keep beside them to that end some others of the companions who started with them at the first, the truthfulness and trust, the earnestness in the present, the yet not inconsistent faith in a far-off better future – a future when much of what perplexes us now shall be made plainer, when we shall be stronger to work, more unselfish to love.

For a moment Eugenia sat silent. But “Tell me more, aunty, please!” begged Floss, tugging at her dress. And Eugenia set to work and delighted the little creature with a minute biography of each individual doll, ending up with a promise that when Floss came to pay her a visit, “some day,” such of the venerable ladies as were yet in existence should be unearthed from the box in the garret of the Wareborough house, (where not so very long ago Eugenia had one day caught sight of their once familiar faces), and produced for the little girl’s inspection.

By the end of the half-hour agreed upon with nurse there were few traces of tears on Eugenia’s face, and Floss’s kiss and hug of ecstatic gratitude left a brightness behind them which somewhat surprised Mrs Eyrecourt, returning home with slightly contemptuous anticipation of the task before her of “looking after Beauchamp’s wife; a girl who has seen and knows nothing, and is certain to be crying her eyes out because he has had to leave her.”

Eugenia was on the lawn at the front of the house when Gertrude drove up.

“Such a delightful drive we have had,” exclaimed Mrs Eyrecourt, throwing the reins to the groom and joining her sister-in-law. “I am so glad I went. It was quite a comfort to see Beauchamp start in good spirits. He has a painful task before him.”

“Yes,” said Eugenia, not indeed knowing what else to say. She was almost entirely in ignorance of the family connections, was unacquainted even with the names of the dead boy’s sisters, and not perfectly sure if his mother was alive or not. But she would not let Gertrude see how little she knew. “I have been amusing myself with your little girl, Mrs Eyrecourt,” she went on, changing the subject; “we got on so well together. I have just taken her back to nurse.”

“You are very kind,” said Gertrude, “but really you must not trouble yourself so. Floss is a most peculiar child. I think she is happier with her nurse than with anyone else, and I find that being taken notice of spoils her temper, so I do not have her much downstairs. I am so sorry I cannot stay out longer just now to show you the gardens and what there is to see, but I have several letters to write. And oh, by-the-by, that reminds me, Beauchamp wished me not to let you forget to order your mourning. Under the circumstances, you see, of Beauchamp’s being poor Roger’s heir, your mourning will have to be deeper than would be ordinarily worn for a second cousin.”

“Yes,” said Eugenia again. “I was thinking of writing about it to-day.”

“Indeed,” said Gertrude, a little surprised, “where were you thinking of ordering it? I was going to say I would write to my dressmaker (I think her the very best) and ask her to send down a list of what you should have. Your commoner dresses I suppose you leave to your maid!”

“I have no maid at present,” said Eugenia. “The one who was partly maid to Syd – to my sister and me – is remaining with my father as his housekeeper. I am going to have a niece of hers for my maid – a very nice girl, whom I have known all my life. She is at Wareborough now, learning a little from her aunt, and she will be ready for me when we go there on our way to – ”

“Bridgenorth,” she was going to have said, forgetting the complete reversal of all their plans, but remembering it in time to stop short.

“To Halswood?” suggested Gertrude. “Wareborough can hardly be called on the road to Halswood. Halswood, you know, is near Chilworth, quite three hours from Marly Junction. But as to your maid – I hardly think you will find an inexperienced girl sufficient now. It is quite different from if you had been going to live quietly at Bridgenorth. Beauchamp will of course send in his papers at once, and he is pretty sure to get leave till he is gazetted out. I daresay I can help you to find a good maid without much difficulty.”

“You are very kind,” said Eugenia, in her turn, “but I should not like to give up Barbara’s niece without a trial. As for my mourning dresses I think it will be best to write to the dressmaker at home who has always worked for me. I can at least get from her what I want at first.”

“A Wareborough dressmaker!” exclaimed Gertrude, lifting her eyebrows. “My dear Eugenia, you must excuse me, but I don’t think that sort of thing will please Beauchamp. He is so very particular.”

“I know he is,” replied Eugenia, quietly, “and therefore I always study to please him. He likes all the dresses I have, and no one can be more particular than I am about their fitting well. The person I speak of made this one,” touching the pretty lavender dress she was wearing, “and the one I had on last night. Don’t you think they fit well?”

“I really have not particularly observed,” said Gertrude, less cordially. “I dare say they do, but fitting is not everything.”

“Certainly not,” said Eugenia, “and of course I know a Wareborough dressmaker cannot make things as fashionably as a London one. But Sydney and I have taken pains to get this person to make our things in the way we like, and I do not care about being too fashionable. I don’t think it is good taste.”

Mrs Eyrecourt smiled, but her smile was not a very pleasant one, and she did not repeat her offer. She was far from thinking it worth her while to enter into any discussion with this very daring young person on even so trifling a subject as dress; but in her own mind she resolved to give her brother a hint as to the expediency of at once and for ever separating his wife from the influences of her former home.

“She is pretty enough to do very well if she had more manner and experience,” Mrs Eyrecourt allowed, with the impartiality on which she prided herself. “But she is really incredibly ignorant, and less docile than I expected. Ah, Beauchamp, you have made a sad mistake!”

The half-hour with Floss in the morning proved to have been the pleasantest part of Eugenia’s first day at Winsley. Mrs Eyrecourt was, of course, civil and attentive, but though, had she met her in other circumstances, Eugenia might have bestowed upon her a fair share of liking, it seemed impossible to Beauchamp’s wife to feel perfectly at ease with her; she felt herself, as it were, constantly on the defensive, and felt, too, that Gertrude was as constantly occupied in taking her measure, criticising what she considered her deficiencies, and noting her observations and opinions. It was far from comfortable. Never before, perhaps, in all her life had Eugenia been so painfully self-conscious, never before had her latent antagonism been so fully aroused; and what was, perhaps, in great measure the cause of both, never before had she known the meaning of – “ennui.” This sort of life, the being treated with the formality due to a visitor, unsoftened by intimacy or association, was to her intolerably dull. She tried to read, but her attention seemed beyond her control, and there was no one at hand to compare notes with, even if she did succeed in becoming interested; for though Gertrude rather affected literary tastes, and talked a good deal of the advantage and desirability of “keeping up with the books of the day,” her ideas of the hooks of the day hardly coincided with Eugenia’s, and to the girl’s inexperience her sister-in-law’s narrow-mindedness on many points seemed unparalleled. On some subjects Gertrude could talk with intelligence and even originality, but on few of these subjects was Eugenia much at home. She had never been inside a London theatre, the best singers of the day she knew but by name, she had never seen the Academy! Gossip or even mild scandal was utterly lost upon her, for she was a complete stranger to the section of the fashionable world in which Mrs Eyrecourt lived and moved and had her being, in which it was her fondest ambition to shine. Gertrude was not much given to exerting herself for the entertainment of her own sex at the best of times, but with respect to her sister-in-law she had really intended to do her utmost, and finding that she did not succeed did not add to her amiability. There would have been some amount of pleasurable excitement in taking Eugenia by the hand in the sense of patronising her, and it had been in this direction that Captain Chancellor had reckoned sanguinely on his sister’s goodwill, not taking into account the one obstacle to this comfortable arrangement – Eugenia’s decided objection to anything of the kind, which from the first Mrs Eyrecourt was quick to perceive and indirectly to resent. In this particular, as in many others, Beauchamp had read his wife’s character wrong, had been unable to estimate the past influences of her life. He had mistaken docility for weakness; the humility and self-distrust engendered by her great love and faith had seemed to him mere consciousness of ignorance and inexperience – a state of mind, to his thinking, eminently becoming in the untrained girl he had honoured by selecting as his wife.

It happened, unfortunately, too, that just at this time there was considerably less than usual “going on” in the Winsley neighbourhood. Of the adjacent families whom Gertrude thought fit to visit some were still in town, some had illness among them – nearly all, from one reason or another, were hors de combat with respect of dinner-parties, picnics, croquet, and the like. And in a general way the neighbourhood was remarkably sociable and friendly, and would have been very ready to make a nine days’ pet of the pretty bride, provided Mrs Eyrecourt had given it to be understood that such attention to her sister-in-law would be agreeable to herself, for Gertrude managed to “queen it” to a considerable extent over society in her part of the county.