Cornelia bowed her stately head with gentle approving laughter.

“They must go, or they despatch us thither,” she said, while her fair face dimpled into serenity.  The remark was of a lower nature than an intellectual discussion ordinarily drew from her:  but could Mr. Barrett have read in her heart, he might have seen that his words were beginning to rob that organ of its native sobriety.  So that when he spoke a cogent phrase, she was silenced, and became aware of a strange exultation in her blood that obscured grave thought.  Cornelia attributed this display of mental weakness altogether to Mr. Barrett’s mental force.  The interposition of a fresh agency was undreamt of by the lady.

Meanwhile, it was evident that Mr. Pole was a victim to one of his fevers of shyness.  He would thrum on the table, frowning; and then, as he met the look of one of the ladies, try to disguise the thought in his head with a forced laugh.  Occasionally, he would turn toward them, as if he had just caught a lost idea that was peculiarly precious.  The ladies drawing up to attend to the communication, had a most trivial matter imparted to them, and away he went.  Several times he said to them “You don’t make friends, as you ought;” and their repudiation of the charge made him repeat:  “You don’t make friends—­home friends.”

“The house can be as full as we care to have it, papa.”

“Yes, acquaintances!  All very well, but I mean friends—­rich friends.”

“We will think of it, papa,” said Adela, “when we want money.”

“It isn’t that,” he murmured.

Adela had written to Wilfrid a full account of her interview with her father.  Wilfrid’s reply was laconic.  “If you cannot stand a week of the brogue, give up Besworth, by all means.”  He made no further allusion to the place.  They engaged an opera-box, for the purpose of holding a consultation with him in town.  He wrote evasively, but did not appear, and the ladies, with Emilia between them, listened to every foot-fall by the box-door, and were too much preoccupied to marvel that Emilia was just as inattentive to the music as they were.  When the curtain dropped they noticed her dejection.

“What ails you?” they asked.

“Let us go out of London to-night,” she whispered, and it was difficult to persuade her that she would see Brookfield again.

“Remember,” said Adela, “it is you that run away from us, not we from you.”

Soft chidings of this description were the only reproaches for her naughty conduct.  She seemed contrite very still and timid, since that night of adventure.  The ladies were glad to observe it, seeing that it lent her an air of refinement, and proved her sensible to correction.

At last Mr. Pole broke the silence.  He had returned from business, humming and rubbing his hands, like one newly primed with a suggestion that was the key of a knotty problem.  Observant Adela said:  “Have you seen Wilfrid, papa?”