night’s post, after having been submitted to his inspection.  Mr. Pole had uttered mysterious phrases:  “You don’t know what you’ve been doing:—­You think the ship’ll go on sailing without wind:  You’ll drive the horse till he drops,” and such like; together with mutterings.  The words were of no import whatsoever to the ladies.  They were writings on the wall; untranslateable.  But, as when the earth quakes our noble edifices totter, their Palace of the Fine Shades and the Nice Feelings groaned and creaked, and for a moment they thought:  “Where are we?” Very soon they concluded, that the speech Arabella had heard was due to their darling papa’s defective education.

In the Council of Three, with reference to the letter of apology to Mrs. Chump, Adela proposed, if it pleased Arabella, to fight the battle of the Republic.  She was young, and wished both to fight and to lead, as Arabella knew.  She was checked.  “It must be left to me,” said Arabella.

“Of course you resist, dear?” Cornelia carelessly questioned.

“Assuredly I do.”

“Better humiliation! better anything! better marriage! than to submit in such a case,” cried Adela.

For, so united were the ladies of Brookfield, and so bent on their grand hazy object, that they looked upon married life unfavourably:  and they had besides an idea that Wedlock, until ‘late in life’ (the age of thirty, say), was the burial alive of woman intellectual.

Toward midday the ladies put on their garden hats and went into the grounds together, for no particular purpose.  Near the West copse they beheld Mr. Pole with Wilfrid and Emilia talking to a strange gentleman.  Assuming a proper dignity, they advanced, when, to their horror, Emilia ran up to them crying:  “This is Mr. Purcell Barrett, the gentleman who plays the organ at church.  I met him in the woods before I knew you.  I played for him the other Sunday, and I want you to know him.”

She had hold of Arabella’s hand and was drawing her on.  There was no opportunity for retreat.  Wilfrid looked as if he had already swallowed the dose.  Almost precipitated into the arms of the ladies, Mr. Barrett bowed.  He was a tolerably youthful man, as decently attired as old black cloth could help him to be.  A sharp inspection satisfied the ladies that his hat and boots were inoffensive:  whereupon they gave him the three shades of distance, tempered so as not to wound his susceptible poverty.

The superlative Polar degree appeared to invigorate Mr. Barrett.  He devoted his remarks mainly to Cornelia, and cheerfully received her frozen monosyllables in exchange.  The ladies talked of Organs and Art, Emilia and Opera.  He knew this and that great organ, and all the operas; but he amazed the ladies by talking as if he knew great people likewise.  This brought out Mr. Pole, who, since he had purchased Brookfield, had been extinguished by them and had not once thoroughly enjoyed his money’s worth.  A courtly poor man was a real pleasure to him.