“You speak,” said Cornelia contemptuously, “as if we had very humbly bowed our heads to the infection.”

“Papa making terms with us!” murmured Arabella.

“Pray, repeat his words.”

Adela tossed her curls.  “I will, as well as I can.  I began by speaking of Besworth cheerfully; saying, that if he really had no strong affection for Brookfield, that would make him regret quitting it, we saw innumerable advantages in the change of residence proposed.  Predilection,—­not affection—­that was what I said.  He replied that Besworth was a large place, and I pointed out that therein lay one of its principal merits.  I expected what would come.  He alluded to the possibility of our changing our condition.  You know that idea haunts him.  I told him our opinion of the folly of the thing.  I noticed that he grew red in the face, and I said that of course marriage was a thing ordained, but that we objected to being submerged in matrimony until we knew who and what we were.  I confess he did not make a bad reply, of its kind.  ’You’re like a youngster playing truant that he may gain knowledge.’  What do you think of it?”

“A smart piece of City-speech,” was Arabella’s remark:  Cornelia placidly observing, “Vulgarity never contains more than a minimum of the truth.”

“I said,” Adela went on, “Think as you will, papa, we know we are right.”  He looked really angry.  He said, that we have the absurdest ideas—­you tell me to repeat his words—­of any girls that ever existed; and then he put a question:  listen:  I give it without comment:  ’I dare say, you all object to widows marrying again.’  I kept myself quiet.  ’Marrying again, papa!  If they marry once they might as well marry a dozen times.’  It was the best way to irritate him.  I did not intend it; that is all I can say.  He jumped from his chair, rubbed his hair, and almost ran up and down the library floor, telling me that I prevaricated.  ’You object to a widow marrying at all—­that’s my question!’ he cried out loud.  Of course I contained my voice all the more.  ‘Distinctly, papa.’  When I had spoken, I could scarcely help laughing.  He went like a pony that is being broken in, crying, I don’t know how many times, ’Why?  What’s your reason?’ You may suppose, darlings, that I decline to enter upon explanation.  If a person is dense upon a matter of pure sentiment, there is no ground between us:  he has simply a sense wanting.  ’What has all this to do with Besworth?’ I asked.  ‘A great deal more than you fancy,’ was his answer.  He seemed to speak every word at me in capital letters.  Then, as if a little ashamed, he sat down, and reached out his hand to mine, and I saw his eyes were moist.  I drew my chair nearer to him.  Now, whether I did right or wrong in this, I do not know I leave it entirely to your judgement.  If you consider how I was placed, you will at all events excuse me.  What I did was—­you know, the very farthest suspicion one has of an extreme possibility one does not mind mentioning:  I said ’Papa, if it should so happen that money is the objection to Besworth, we will not trouble you.’  At this, I can only say that he behaved like an insane person.  He denounced me as wilfully insulting him that I might avoid one subject.”