Her spirit rose, however, to meet even this unlooked-for rebuff to her gracious hospitality, and with perfect self-possession she responded: “Ah! then as dinner is served, perhaps you will come directly to the table. Dr. Winthrop, will you take your mother in?” She turned and led the way, motioning to the butler to place two more chairs, then she deliberately took her own place at the head of the table—although she did not doubt that Madame Winthrop had been accustomed to sit there. But her husband had told her that she was mistress of his home, and she did not intend to relinquish her position to any one—she would at least show him that she was fitted to reign there as such. She knew that her guests were watching with critical eyes every movement, and the fact only incited her to do her best. Her manners were perfect, and her husband’s eye often met hers with a gleam of pleasure and encouragement, while he was secretly exulting over the beautiful picture which she made, sitting so calmly, like a little queen upon her throne. She chatted easily and brightly, introducing congenial and timely subjects if the conversation lagged in the least, and bore herself throughout the meal with such charming dignity that the two women began to believe that she must belong to some good family, and to congratulate themselves that their idolized son and brother had chosen wisely and creditably, in spite of their fears, even if he had disappointed previous expectations. Still they were far too wary to commit themselves—they continued to be guardedly courteous, intrenching themselves behind a polite reserve that might be safely dispensed with or augmented, as the case might require. After dinner all repaired to the library, where the conversation was chiefly monopolized by madam and her daughter, although Dr. Winthrop endeavored several times to draw Salome into it. She always pleasantly responded to his efforts—said all that politeness required of her and then gave way to their guests again. Not once during the evening, however, did either woman address her directly, and yet they were so adroit in this avoidance that no disinterested observer could have regarded it as an intentional slight. But Dr. Winthrop and Salome both knew that it was intentional—both felt that she would never be received upon an equal footing until they could be satisfied as to her birth and position. It aroused all the young wife’s spirit, and she told herself: “I am glad now that True does not know—that something has happened every time I have tried to tell him my history and”—with a sense of the ludicrousness of the situation stealing over her—“there will be a scene, by and by, when they take him to task and he is obliged to say he does not know anything about me.” “Salome,” said Dr. Winthrop, breaking in on these reflections, “do you feel able to give us a little music?” “Certainly, if you wish, and it will be agreeable to—our friends,” she responded obligingly.