of these stupid fellows—­who would insist upon wondering why the man Barrett and the girl Emilia (musicians both:  both as it were, vagrants) did not walk together and talk of quavers and minims—­was extremely comic.  Passing the withered tree, Mr. Barrett deserved thanks from Freshfield, if he did not obtain them; for he lingered, surrendering his place.  And then Adela knew that the weight of Edward Buxley’s remonstrative wrath had fallen on silent Emilia, to whom she clung fondly.

“I have had a letter,” Edward murmured, in the voice that propitiates secresy.

“A letter?” she cried loud; and off flew the man like a rabbit into his hole, the mask of him remaining.

Emilia presently found Mr. Barrett at her elbow.  His hand clasped the book Cornelia had placed in the tree.

“It is hers,” said Emilia.

He opened it and pointed to his initials.  She looked in his face.

“Are you very ill?”

Adela turned round from Edward’s neighbouring head.  “Who is ill?”

Cornelia brought Freshfield to a stop:  “Ill?”

Before them all, book in hand, Mr. Barrett had to give assurance that he was hearty, and to appear to think that his words were accepted, in spite of blanched jowl and reddened under-lid.  Cornelia threw him one glance:  his eyes closed under it.  Adela found it necessary to address some such comforting exclamation as ‘Goodness gracious!’ to her observant spirit.

In the park-path, leading to the wood, Arabella was seen as they came out the young branches that fringed the firs.  She hurried up.

“I have been looking for you.  Papa has arrived with Sir Twickenham Pryme, who dines with us.”

Adela unhesitatingly struck a blow.

“Lady Pryme, we make place for you.”

And she crossed to Cornelia.  Cornelia kept her eyes fixed on Adela’s mouth, as one looks at a place whence a venomous reptile has darted out.  Her eyelids shut, and she stood a white sculpture of pain, pitiable to see.  Emilia took her hand, encouraging the tightening fingers with a responsive pressure.  The group shuffled awkwardly together, though Adela did her best.  She was very angry with Mr. Barrett for wearing that absurdly pale aspect.  She was even angry with his miserable bankrupt face for mounting a muscular edition of the smile Cornelia had shown.  “His feelings!” she cried internally; and the fact presented itself to her, that feelings were a luxury utterly unfit for poor men, who were to be accused of presumption for indulging in them.

“Now, I suppose you are happy?” she spoke low between Arabella and Edward.

The effect of these words was to colour violently two pair of cheeks.  Arabella’s behaviour did not quite satisfy the fair critic.  Edward Buxley was simply caught in a trap:  He had the folly to imagine that by laughing he released himself.

“Is not that the laugh of an engaged?” said Adela to Freshfield.