"I never saw such a shocking little flirt," said Majendie; "she takes after her mother."

"She's the living image of you, ma'am," said Nanna, conscious of the other's blunder.

"I wish she had my strength," said Anne, in a voice fine and trenchant as a sword.

Nanna and the nurse retired discreetly.

The parents looked at each other over the frail body of the little girl. Majendie's face had flushed under his wife's blow. He knew that she was thinking of Edith and her fate. The same malady had appeared in more than one member of his family, as Anne was well aware. (Her own strain was pure.) Instinctively he put his hand to the child's spine. Little Peggy sat up straight and strong enough. And another thought passed through him. His eyes conveyed it to Anne as plainly as if he had said, "I don't know about her mother's strength. She's the child of her mother's coldness."

He set the child down on Anne's lap, told her to be good there, and left them.

Anne saw how she had hurt him, and was visited with an unfamiliar pang of self-reproach. She was very nice to him all that evening. And out of his own pain a kinder thought came to him. He had been the cause of great unhappiness to Anne. There might be a sense in which the child was suffering from her mother's martyrdom. He persuaded himself that the least he could do was to leave Anne in supreme possession of her.

CHAPTER XX

WHAT with anxiety about his daughter and his sister,

and a hopeless attachment to his wife, Majendie's

misery became so acute that it told upon his health. His friends, Gorst and the Hannays, noticed the change and spent themselves in persistent efforts to cheer him. And, at times when his need of distraction became imperious, he declined from Anne's lofty domesticities upon the Hannays. He liked to go over in the evening, and sit with Mrs. Hannay, and talk about his child. Mrs. Hannay was never tired of listening. The subject drew her out quite remarkably, so that Mrs. Hannay, always soft and kind, showed at her very softest and kindest. To talk to her was like resting an aching head upon the down cushion to which it was impossible not to compare her. It was the Hannays' bitter misfortune that they had no children; but this frustration had left them hearts more hospitably open to their friends.

Mrs. Hannay called in Prior Street, at stated intervals, to see Edith and the baby. On these occasions Anne, if taken unaware by Mrs. Hannay, was always perfect and polite, but when she knew that Mrs. Hannay was coming, she contrived adroitly to be out. Her attitude to the Hannays was one of the things she undoubtedly meant to keep up. The natural result was that Majendie was driven to an increasing friendliness, by way of making up for the slights the poor things had to endure from his wife. He was always meaning to remonstrate with Anne,

and always putting off the uncomfortable moment. The subject was so mixed with painful matters that he shrank from handling it. But, with the New Year following Peggy's first birthday, circumstances forced him to take, once for all, a firm stand. Certain entanglements in the affairs of Mr. Gorst had called for his intervention. There had been important developments in his own business; Majendie was about to enter into partnership with Mr. Hannay. And Anne had given him an opportunity for protest by expressing her unqualified disapprobation of Mrs. Hannay. Mrs. Hannay had offended grossly; she had passed the limits; having no instincts, Anne maintained, to tell her where to stop. Mrs. Hannay had a passion for Peggy which she was wholly unable to conceal. Moved by a tender impulse of vicarious motherhood, she had sent her at Christmas a present of a little coat. Anne had acknowledged the gift in a note so frigid that it cut Mrs. Hannay to the heart. She had wept over it, and had been found weeping by her husband, who mentioned the incident to Majendie.

It was more than Majendie could bear; and that night, in the drawing-room (Anne had left off sitting in the study. She said it smelt of smoke), he entered on an explanation, full, brief, and clear.

"I must ask you," he said, "to behave a little better to poor Mrs. Hannay. You've never known her anything but kind, and sweet, and forgiving; and your treatment of her has been simply barbarous."

"Indeed ?"

"I think so. There are reasons why you will have to ask the Hannays to dinner next week, and reasons why you will have to be nice to them."

"What reasons?"

"One's enough. I'm going into partnership with Lawson Hannay."

She stared. The announcement was a blow to her.

"Is that a reason why I should make a friend of Mrs. Hannay?"

"It's a reason why you should be civil to her. You will send an invitation to Gorst at the same time."

She winced. "That I cannot do."

"You can, dear, and you will. Gorst's in a pretty bad way. I knew he would be. He's got entangled now with some wretched girl, and I've got to disentangle him. The only way to do it is to get him to come here again."

"And I am to write to him?" Her tone proclaimed the idea preposterous.

"It will come best from you, as it's you who have kept him out of the house. You must, please, put your own feelings aside, and simply do what I ask you."

He rose and went to the writing-place, and prepared a place for her there.

Anne said nothing. She was considering how far it was possible to oppose him. It had always been his way to yield greatly in little things; to drift and let "things" drift till he created an illusory impression of his weakness. Then when "things" had gone too far, he would rise, as he had risen now, and take his stand with a strength the more formidable because it came as a complete surprise. "Come," said he, "it's got to be done; and you may as well do it at once and get it over."

She gave one glance at him, as if she measured his will against hers. Then she obeyed.

She handed the notes to him in silence.

"That's all right," said he, laying down her note to

Gorst. "And this couldn't be better. I'm glad you've written so charmingly to Mrs. Hannay."

"I'm sorry that I ever seemed ungracious to her, Walter. But the other note I wrote under compulsion, as you know."

"I don't care how you did it, my dear, so long as it's done." He slipped the note to Mrs. Hannay into his pocket.

"Where are you going?" she asked anxiously.

"I'm going to take this myself to Mrs. Hannay." "What are you going to say to her?"

"The first thing that comes into my head."

She called him back as he was going. "Walter-have you paid Mr. Hannay that money you owed him?”

He stood still, astounded at her knowledge, and inclined for one moment to dispute her right to question him.

"I have," he said sternly. "I paid it yesterday." She breathed freely.

Majendie found Mrs. Hannay by her fireside, alone but cheerful. She gave him a little anxious look as she took his hand. "Wallie," said she, "you're depressed. What is it?"

He owned to the charge, but declined to give an account of himself.

She settled him comfortably among her cushions; she told him to light his pipe; and while he smoked she poured out consolation as she best knew how. She drew him on to talk of Peggy.

"That child's going to be a comfort to you, Wallie. See if she isn't. I wanted you to have a little son, because I thought he'd be more of a companion. But I'm glad now it's been a little daughter."