Redmain came in. He gave a glance at Tom
as he sang, and went up to his wife where she still sat, with her
face to the fire, and her back to the piano.
"New singing-master, eh?" he said.
"No," answered his wife.
"Who the deuce is he?"
"I forget his name," replied Hesper, in the tone of one bored by
question. "He used to come to Durnmelling."
"That is no reason why he should not have a name to him."
Hesper did not reply. Tom went on playing. The moment he struck
the last chord, she called to him in a clear, soft, cold voice:
"Will you tell Mr. Redmain your name? I happen to have forgotten
it."
Tom picked up his hat, rose, came forward, and, mentioning his
name, held out his hand.
"I don't know you," said Mr. Redmain, touching his palm with two
fingers that felt like small fishes.
"It is of no consequence," said his wife; "Mr. Aylmer is an old
acquaintance of our family."
"Only you don't quite remember his name!"
"It is not my _friends'_ names only I have an unhappy trick
of forgetting. I often forget yours, Mr. Redmain!"
"My _good_ name, you must mean."
"I never heard that."
Neither had raised the voice, or spoken with the least apparent
anger.
Mr. Redmain gave a grin instead of a retort. He appreciated her
sharpness too much to get one ready in time. Turning away, he
left the room with a quiet, steady step, taking his grin with
him: it had drawn the clear, scanty skin yet tighter on his face,
and remained fixed; so that he vanished with something of the
look of a hairless tiger.
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