By this time Annie Brunel had become familiar with the Hubbard family, and had definitely entered upon her new duties. The longer she stayed in the house, the more she was puzzled by the consideration with which every one, except her pupils, treated her; and even they were impertinent not through intention, but by habit. Mrs. Hubbard was almost obtrusively affectionate towards her governess. Everything was done to make her residence in the house agreeable. She lunched and dined with Mrs. Hubbard, so that poor Miss Betham’s sherry was never called into requisition. When there was a dinner-party or a dance in the house, Annie Brunel was invited as a guest, introduced to visitors as a guest, treated with all the courtesy due to a guest. She was never asked to sing by the Hubbards; although she played and sang enough at the solicitation of other people. The children were taught to consider her, not as a governess, but as a friend of their mamma’s. When there were people at the house, they were obliged to treat her as a gracious and distinguished lady who had come to spend the evening, not as a poor governess expected to find correct accompaniments for people who gratuitously changed the key three or four times in the course of a song. As a governess, she ought to have been very grateful for such treatment. Yet she felt far from happy or contented. She did not like the pale, round-shouldered, nervous man who never looked one in the face. Despite the gratitude she could not but feel towards Mrs. Hubbard, she did not admire or love much that lady, whose unnecessary mendacity she had once or twice discovered. Here, however, was a home. Outside, the cold elements, the chiller hearts of strangers, the vicissitudes, trials, struggles, martyrdom of a fight for life; inside, warmth and comfort, apparently true friends, and easy duties. She tried to be grateful for all these things; and when moods of lonely despair and melancholy overwhelmed her, she upbraided her own weakness, and resolved to be more thankful in the future. The Count had not ventured to go near her. He was satisfied to know that she was in safe keeping. He could bide his time. He had made one blunder; he would not again commit the mistake of forcing marital concerns upon her while she was moved by grief for the loss of an old friend. He allowed the slow passing days and weeks to work for him; trusting that in time he would only have to step in and reap the rich harvest his prudence had prepared. But he called frequently at the office of his brother, to receive reports. And the tone of the Count, on one or two occasions, was sufficient to stir up a mild remonstrance from even that patient and much-enduring person. "You talk to me as if you had paid me to engage her and keep her in the house for you." "Did you engage her for yourself? You know I suggested the thing to you; and am prepared to reimburse you for any extra expense you may have been put to."