He sat down, making himself quite at home, though this was only his second visit to Avonside Cottage. 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.
"Which, you mean, is a good reason why I should speak no more about him.
I obey you, Miss Grey."
"But his daughter? Did you say you knew his daughter?" pursued Miss
Gascoigne.
"Oh yes, casually. A charming girl she was! very pretty, though immature. Those large, fair women sometimes do not look their best until near thirty. And she had a glorious voice. She and I used to sing duets-together continually."