As he did not smile or speak very kindly, Chris found it impossible to obey. She thought, indeed, that the command was given ironically. “I--I was only trying a few bars. I--I am very sorry I disturbed you. But I didn’t know you could hear. I thought you were deaf,” stammered Chris. Mr. Bradfield looked up at her with a slight frown. No man approaching fifty cares to be reminded, especially by a pretty young woman, of the infirmities which must inevitably overtake him before many years are over. “Deaf! Thought I was deaf? Pray what made you think that?” “Well,” said Chris, “mother and I both thought you must be, because she so often knocks at your study door, and you don’t hear her.” Mr. Bradfield’s countenance cleared, and a twinkle appeared in his eyes. “Oh! ah! No; very likely not.” Then he chuckled to himself, and added good-humouredly, “Your mother’s a joke, isn’t she?” Chris was taken aback, and for the first moment she could make no answer. So Mr. Bradfield went on: “Of course, I don’t mean anything at all disrespectful to the old lady. She makes a splendid head of a household; servants say she’s a regular tar--er--er--a regular darling. But, well, she’s a trifle chilling, now, isn’t she?” “My mother is not very effusive in her manners towards people she doesn’t know very well,” answered Chris, with some constraint. “That’s just what I meant,” said Mr. Bradfield, looking up at the ceiling. “And not knowing me very well, she’s not very effusive to me.” Chris, who had seated herself on the music-stool, drew herself up primly. She could not allow her mother to be laughed at. “I think it’s better for people to improve upon acquaintance, instead of making themselves so very sweet and charming at first, that they can’t even keep it up.” Mr. Bradfield raised his eyebrows. “Have I been so sweet and charming, then, that you’re afraid that I can’t keep it up?” “No, indeed you haven’t,” replied Chris promptly, with an irrepressible little laugh. “That’s all right. What were you doing in here?” he went on, looking at the gloves she was drawing on her hands, and at the duster and dust-bellows she had picked up again. “I was dusting the ornaments.” “What on earth did you want to do that for? Isn’t there a houseful of servants to do all that sort of thing?” “My mother says the care of old china is a lady’s work, not a servant’s. She would think it wicked to leave such a duty to the maids.” “Well, I don’t like to see you do it. It looks as if you were expected to do parlour-maids’ work, which you’re not.” Chris, with a little flush of curiosity and excitement, rose from her seat, and drummed softly with her gloved finger-tips on the top of the piano. She saw the opportunity to satisfy herself on a point which had been occupying her mind. “What am I expected to do, then, Mr. Bradfield? That’s just what I want to know.” Mr. Bradfield looked rather amused, and did not at once reply.