And then, recurring to her interview with Wilfrid, it struck her:  “Suppose that, after all, Money!...”  Yes, Mammon has acted Hymen before now.  Nothing else explained Mrs. Chump; so she thought, in one clear glimpse.  Inveterate sentimental habit smeared the picture with two exclamations—­“Impossible!” and “Papa!” I desire it to be credited that these simple interjections absolutely obscured her judgement.  Little people think either what they are made to think, or what they choose to think; and the education of girls is to make them believe that facts are their enemies-a naughty spying race, upon whom the dogs of Pudeur are to be loosed, if they surprise them without note of warning.  Adela silenced her suspicion, easily enough; but this did not prevent her taking a measure to satisfy it.  Petting her papa one evening, she suddenly asked him for ninety pounds.

“Ninety!” said Mr. Pole, taking a sharp breath.  He was as composed as possible.

“Is that too much, papa, darling?”

“Not if you want it—­not if you want it, of course not.”

“You seemed astonished.”

“The sum! it’s an odd sum for a girl to want.  Ten, twenty, fifty—­a hundred; but you never hear of ninety, never! unless it’s to pay a debt; and I have all the bills, or your aunt has them.”

“Well, papa, if it excites you, I will do without it.  It is for a charity, chiefly.”

Mr. Pole fumbled in his pocket, muttering, “No money here—­cheque-book in town.  I’ll give it you,” he said aloud, “to-morrow morning—­morrow morning, early.”

“That will do, papa;” and Adela relieved him immediately by shooting far away from the topic.

The ladies retired early to their hall of council in the bedchamber of Arabella, and some time after midnight Cornelia went to her room; but she could not sleep.  She affected, in her restlessness, to think that her spirits required an intellectual sedative, so she went down to the library for a book; where she skimmed many—­a fashion that may be recommended, for assisting us to a sense of sovereign superiority to authors, and also of serene contempt for all mental difficulties.  Fortified in this way, Cornelia took a Plutarch and an Encyclopaedia under her arm, to return to her room.  But one volume fell, and as she stooped to recover it, her candle shared its fate.  She had to find her way back in the dark.  On the landing of the stairs, she fancied that she heard a step and a breath.  The lady was of unshaken nerves.  She moved on steadily, her hand stretched out a little before her.  What it touched was long in travelling to her brain; but when her paralyzed heart beat again, she knew that her hand clasped another hand.  Her nervous horror calmed as the feeling came to her of the palpable weakness of the hand.

“Who are you?” she asked.  Some hoarse answer struck her ear.  She asked again, making her voice distincter.  The hand now returned her pressure with force.  She could feel that the person, whoever it was, stood collecting strength to speak.  Then the words came—­