But Miss Gascoigne, if only from
love of opposition, had made it pretty clear to him that he was welcome
there, and that she liked him. He enjoyed being liked, and had the easy
confidence of one who is well used to it.
"Yes, I am ready to avouch, this is the prettiest little paradise within
miles of Avonsbridge. No wonder you should have plenty of visitors, I
met a tribe coming here--your sister-in-law (charming person is Mrs.
Grey!) your nephews and niece, and that gipsy-looking, rather
handsome nurse, who is a little like the head of Clytie, only for her
sullen, underlying mouth and projecting chin."
"How you notice faces, Sir Edwin!"
"Of course. I am a little bit of an artist."
"And a great piece of a musician, as I understand. Which reminds me,"
added Miss Gascoigne, eager to plunge into her mission, which, in her
strange delusion, she earnestly believed was a worthy and righteous
one, in which she had embarked for the family benefit--"I wanted to
ask whether you did not know Mrs. Grey's father, the organist? And
herself too, when she was Miss Oakley?"
"Every body knew Mr. Oakley," was the evasive answer. "He was a
remarkable man--quite a genius, with all the faults of a genius. He
drank, he ate opium, he--"
"Nay, he is dead," faintly said Aunt Maria.
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