When Anstice met Mrs. Wykeham a few days later, she was chaffed lightly upon her friendship with the Colonel.
"He has spent most of his time with you, and if you were not both suitably married, I should say you were made for one another."
"He is my husband's friend," protested Anstice, "and my husband's friends will always, I hope, be mine."
Her quiet dignity and ease of manner stopped Mrs. Wykeham's banter.
"Well, my dear, I consider myself one of your husband's oldest friends, so I expect to see more of you than I have done already. I am giving a garden-party next Thursday. Don't give me any excuses, but come."
"Thank you. I will."
But when the day came, Anstice felt loath to meet her neighbours. One or two had already called, and each visit had been somewhat of a strain. She was really delighted to see the heavy clouds roll up from the Fells, and come down in a steady downpour at three o'clock and onwards. Loneliness had no terror for her. She was perfectly content with her simple, lonely life. And for the present she much preferred being out of all social festivities.
A little later she agreed to play the organ for the Sunday services. Josie and Georgie were quite willing to sit by her side. Josie especially took the greatest interest in the organ, and even asked to attend the choir practices. She was passionately fond of music, and was getting on splendidly under Mrs. Fergusson's tuition. Their behaviour was blameless for the first two Sundays, and then Josie's love of mischief got the better of her. In the middle of the Venite, she got behind Anstice, put out her hand, and pulled out a very loud stop. The result was an awful blast of sound, and a shocked congregation.
Anstice's face was really stern as she turned to Josie when the service was over.
"Did you think it fine to disgrace yourself and me by such a feat?" she asked her when they were walking home.