"I was not thinking of that," he said, "so much as of this novel which she has written. It is a profane, immoral book, and will do incalculable harm if it is published." "I feel sure it will," said Mrs. Gresley, who had not read it. "It is dreadfully coarse in places," continued Mr. Gresley, who had the same opinion of George Eliot's works. "And I warned Hester most solemnly on that point when I found she had begun another book. I told her that I well knew that to meet the public taste it was necessary to interlard fiction with _risque_ things in order to make it sell, but that it was my earnest hope she would in future resist this temptation. She only said that if she introduced improprieties into her book in order to make money, in her opinion she deserved to be whipped in the public streets. She was very angry, I remember, and became as white as a sheet, and I dropped the subject." "She can't bear even the most loving word of advice," said Mrs. Gresley. "She holds nothing sacred," went on Mr. Gresley, remembering an unfortunate incident in the clergyman's career. "Her life here seems to have had no softening effect upon her. She sneers openly at religion. I never thought, I never allowed myself to think, that she was so dead to spiritual things as her book forces me to believe. Even her good people, her heroine, have not a vestige of religion, only a sort of vague morality, right for the sake of right, and love teaching people things; nothing real." There was a moment's silence. "Hester is my sister," said Mr. Gresley, "and I am fond of her in spite of all, and she has no one to look to for help and guidance but me. I am her only near relation. That is why I feel so much the way she disregards all I say. She does not realize that it is for her sake I speak." Mr. Gresley thought he was sincere, because he was touched. Mrs. Gresley's cheek burned. That faithful, devoted little heart, which lived only for her husband and children, could not brook--_what?_ That her priest should be grieved and disregarded? Or was it any affection for and interest in another woman that it could not brook? "I have made up my mind," said Mr. Gresley, "to forbid her most solemnly when she comes back to-morrow to publish that book." "She does not come back to-morrow, but this evening," said the young wife; and pushed by some violent, nameless feeling which was too strong for her, she added, "She will not obey you. When has she ever listened to what you say? She will laugh at you, James. She always laughs at you. And the book will be published all the same." "It shall not," said Mr. Gresley, coloring darkly. "I shall not allow it."