To Mrs. Abercarne’s surprise and disappointment, but very much to the relief of Chris, the ladies saw but little of Mr. Bradfield in the first days of their sojourn at Wyngham House. Apart from this, which she considered rather disrespectful and decidedly unappreciative, the elder lady had little to complain of. She found herself absolute mistress of the establishment, with no one to interfere with her, no one to dispute her orders. The word had evidently gone forth that her will was to be law, and her power in every department of the household was unlimited. The only thing she ever wanted in vain was an interview with the master of the house. If she knocked at the door of the study, he answered politely from within that he was busy, and requested her to let him know what she wanted by letter. Then she would write an elaborately courteous note concerning the dismissal of a servant, or a necessary outlay in repairs. His answer was always short, and always to the same effect: she was to do exactly what she pleased, and the expense was immaterial. With her complaints to Chris that they had very little of his society, her daughter had no sympathy whatever. She did not care for Mr. Bradfield; she was rather afraid of him, and to enjoy his house without his presence was, to her thinking, an absolutely perfect condition of things. It was not to continue indefinitely, however. Mrs. Abercarne, whose respect for the old china about the house was at least as great as that of its possessor, had assigned to her daughter the duty of dusting and taking care of it. The sight of old Dresden in the hands of the common domestic parlour-maid made her shiver, she said. So every morning it was the task of Chris to make what she called the grand tour, armed with a pair of dust-bellows and a duster, and provided with an old pair of gloves to keep her hands, as her mother said, “like those of a gentlewoman.” One morning when she had got as far as the drawing-room, and was blowing the dust from a Sèvres cup and saucer, her eye was caught by a canterbury full of music which stood beside the piano. Mother was busy in the basement; Mr. Bradfield was never anywhere near. So Chris slipped off her gloves and went down on her knees and turned over the music to see what it was like. She had the carpet about her well strewn before she found anything to her liking. Then, having come upon a book of ancient dance music, she opened the piano and began, very softly, to try an old waltz tune. She had played very few bars when the door opened and Mr. Bradfield looked in. Chris started up crimson, feeling that she had done something very dreadful. She thought he would burst out into some rude remark about the strumming disturbing him; but he only strolled as far as the fireplace, which was half-way towards her, put his hands behind his back, nodded, and said: “Go on.”