Mrs. Graham-Shute, whose face had in a moment become flaccid and expressionless, drew her head well back, and murmured a postscript in Mrs. Ethandene’s ear: “The housekeeper’s little girl. I didn’t know you meant her. So good of my cousin to let her come, wasn’t it?” Now Mrs. Graham-Shute did not wish her cousin to hear these words; but being one of those uncomfortable persons who are always more interested in what is not intended for their ears than in what is, he did hear them. And he utterly confounded and exasperated his dear cousin by saying, in the same loud voice as before: “There wasn’t any goodness about it; there’s no goodness in being kind to a pretty girl. I gave the ball just because she likes dancing. Nothing else would have induced me to turn my house upside down like this.” Mrs. Graham-Shute could only affect to laugh at this speech as if it had been some charming pleasantry. But she did it with such an ill grace, being, indeed, extremely mortified, that it was plain she was on the verge of tears. Meanwhile Chris was not enjoying herself so much as Mr. Bradfield had wished her to do. Her partner was a local production, being, indeed, no other than one of the famous Brownes, without an assortment of whom no Wyngham gaiety could be considered complete. He was the younger partner in the principal firm of solicitors of the town, and was, as she afterwards learnt, looked upon as “a great catch.” No Wyngham lady, however, had as yet caught him, and young Mr. Browne, modestly conscious of the interest he excited in the feminine breasts of the neighbourhood, conceived it as more his duty than his pleasure to distribute his attentions as equally as he could among the maidens of the place. In the course of his philanthropic wanderings, therefore, he had fallen temporarily to the lot of Chris, who was, perhaps, not yet sufficiently acclimatised to appreciate the honour as it deserved. For young Mr. Browne’s attractions did not include the gift of conversational brilliancy, and Chris found the _tête-à-tête_ hard work. “You go in a great deal for theatricals, don’t you?” she said, thinking, from what she had heard, that this was a safe shot. But he shook his head with a smile, which had in it not more than the minimum of the contempt the average Englishman always shows for any form of recreation in which he is not proficient. “No, _I_ don’t, but my brothers and sisters do. Amy, the second one, acts awfully well. They did the _Vicar of Wakefield_ last year for the Blind School, and her Olivia was ever so much better than Ellen Terry’s. Everybody said so. She’d make her fortune on the stage, that girl would. Of course, my father would never let her go on; but lots of people would say it’s a pity.”