Emily paled so that every shade of colour went out of her face. It had been pale before, but now it was like a stormy evening sky, of the blankest whiteness. She looked at John for a moment, with something like a quiver on her steady lip. Then she turned to her father with a singular smile and asked, ‘Will you send him to Liverpool now?’ CHAPTER XIII. WHAT THE PARISH THOUGHT. ‘I want to know who this woman is,’ said Mrs. Egerton. ‘She seems to take the control of everything. They tell me that poor Mr. Sandford does not venture to call his soul his own, and John goes about as if all the life was cowed out of him. Who is she, Mr. Cattley? don’t _you_ know?’ The curate was seated in the drawing-room of the rectory, which was to him the place most near to Paradise. It was twilight of the wintry day, and almost dark, the blaze from the fire dancing upon the walls and making glad Mr. Cattley’s heart. He loved, above everything in the world, to sit and talk by that uncertain light. Elly, who at sixteen was old enough to have been the object of his devotion, was sitting close against the great window of the room, which looked upon the lawn and waving trees, with a book in her arms. She was making use of the very last rays of the daylight, which were not strong enough for older eyes, and was altogether enrapt in the book, and unconscious of what was going on behind her, though now and then a word would come to her and she would return across the short distance of several centuries to reply; for she was deep in the ‘Morte d’Arthur,’ and inattentive to everything else, except, as we have said, when something which interested her, something upon which she was ready with a word, came uppermost and flashed across the keen young faculties which found it no matter of difficulty to be in two places at a time. ‘I suppose I ought to know,’ said the curate, ‘for I have spoken to her three or four times. Whoever she is, she looks a lady and talks--with great sense at least; but more than that I know nothing, not even her name.’ ‘What relation is she to John? I am glad to hear she is a lady. Our dear little Mrs. Sandford, whom we all loved--yes, yes, she was a true gentlewoman in her heart--but they were what you would call _bourgeois_, don’t you think? No, you must not shake your head at my French word. There is no English word that expresses what I mean.’ ‘Middle-class,’ the curate said. ‘Middle-class is such a big word, and it does not mean the same thing. When I was young it meant gentry, too, all who did not belong to the very highest. Oh, yes, we are all as good gentlemen as the King; but I feel quite middle-class myself, not living with duchesses, nor wishing to do so.’ ‘For that matter,’ said Mr. Cattley, hotly, ‘there are very few duchesses who are worthy to----’ ‘Tie my shoe,’ said the lady, with a laugh. ‘Let us take that for granted; but middle-class is not what I mean exactly. And this Mrs.---- what is her name----’