as treacherous.  His style was too good.  When he informed Mrs. Chump that he had hired a yacht for the season, and added, after enlarging on the merits of the vessel, “I am under your orders,” his sisters were as creatures cut in twain—­one half abominating his conduct, the other approving his style.  The bow, the smile, were perfect.  The ladies had to make an effort to recover their condemnatory judgement.

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Chump; “and if you’ve got a yacht, Mr. Wilfrud, won’t ye have a great parcel o’ the arr’stocracy on board?”

“You may spy a title by the aid of a telescope,” said Wilfrid.

“And I’m to come, I am?”

“Are you not elected captain?”

“Oh, if ye’ve got lords and real ladies on board, I’ll come, be sure of ut!  I’ll be as sick as a cat, I will.  But, I’ll come, if it’s the rroon of my stomach.  I’d say to Chump, “Oh, if ye’d only been born a lord, or would just get yourself struck a knight on one o’ your shoulders,—­oh, Chump!” I’d say, ‘it wouldn’t be necessary to be rememberin’ always the words of the cerr’mony about lovin’ and honourin’ and obeyin’ of a little whistle of a fella like you.”  Poor lad! he couldn’t stop for his luck!  Did ye ask me to take wine, Mr. Wilfrud?  I’ll be cryin’, else, as a widde should, ye know!”

Frequent administrations of wine arrested the tears of Mrs. Chump, until it is possible that the fulness of many a checked flow caused her to redden and talk slightly at random.  At the first mention of their father’s name, the ladies went out from the room.  It was foolish, for they might have watched the effect of certain vinous innuendoes addressed to Wilfrid’s apprehensiveness; but they were weakened and humbled, and everything they did was foolish.  From the fact that they offended their keen critical taste, moreover, they were targets to the shaft that wounds more fatally than all.  No ridicule knocks the strength out of us so thoroughly as our own.

Whether or not he guessed their condition favourable for his plans, Wilfrid did not give them time to call back their scattered powers.  At the hour of eleven he sent for Arabella to come to him in the library.  The council upstairs permitted Arabella to go, on the understanding that she was prepared for hostilities, and ready to tear the mask from Wilfrid’s face.

He commenced, without a shadow of circumlocution, and in a matter-of-fact way, as if all respect for the peculiar genius of the house of Pole had vanished:  “I sent for you to talk a word or two about this woman, who, I see, troubles you a little.  I’m sorry she’s in the house.”

“Indeed!” said Arabella.