"Ah, just so--just so!" said Mr. Gray, a little discomfited. "But
would it be better not to say it?"

"It would be better to mean it," said Mr. Bond.

"He parries well," thought Hubert.

"Winifred," said Mrs. Gray, off whose smooth nature these discussions
rolled harmlessly, "the music was very fine this morning."

Winifred, who would have preferred almost any subject to this, cast an
appealing glance at her mother, but it was unheeded. She had hoped Mr.
Bond would not recognize her as the singer.

Mrs. Gray went on: "Mrs. Butterworth, who sits just the other side of
the partition from us, you know, was quite carried away. She looked
volumes at me, but she just whispered 'heavenly!' She said after
church she hoped you would come to her party next week and bring your
songs. You have such a gift, she said."

And Mrs. Gray herself sighed religiously at the thought of Winnie's
"gift." Winnie could have sighed, too, but it was with torture.

Mrs. Gray was a comfortable lady, absorbed in the quiet machinery of a
conventionally proper life. She loved her family, her church, and a
moderate amount of society. She loved things. Quiet satisfaction
beamed from the gentle eyes on the choice silver of the dining-room, on
her blue antique china, on the costly, tasteful accessories of the
drawing-room, and, indeed, on all the well chosen appointments of the
quietly elegant home. Interest in her own person and its adornment had
been gradually diverted toward Winifred, whose beauty, grace of manner,
and accomplishments, were an unfailing joy. Now she sighed in quiet
gratitude to the vague deity known as Providence for Winifred's
peculiarly sweet gift. As to the sermon of the morning, she was one of
those hearers in whose mind a sermon and its application do not
necessarily go together.

Winifred felt two pairs of eyes upon her from across the table as her
mother talked to her in a voice not intended to interrupt the gentlemen
in their conversation. There were Hubert's eyes of darker brown than
her own and very searching, and the preacher's blue eyes that looked
inquiringly through rimless eye-glasses. She could think of no answer
to her mother, and so bent her eyes silently upon her plate, while a
flush rose to her temples. Mrs. Butterworth's rapturous "heavenly" was
in strong contrast to the conviction of godless insincerity which
filled her own heart.

Mercifully to her embarrassment her father began again: