“Will you take long solitary walks unprotected?” she was asked.

“I have a parasol,” she replied; and could hear, miles distant, the domestic comments being made on her innocence; and the story it would be —­“She thinks of no possible danger but from the sun.”

A little forcing of her innocence now was necessary as an opiate for her conscience.  She was doing what her conscience could only pardon on the plea of her extreme innocence.  The sisters, and the fashion at Brookfield, permitted the assumption, and exaggerated it willingly.  It chanced, however, that Adela had reason to feel discontented.  It was a breach of implied contract, she thought, that Cornelia should, as she did only yesterday, tell her that she had seen Edward Buxley in the woods, and that she was of opinion that the air of the woods was bad for her.  Not to see would have been the sisterly obligation, in Adela’s idea—­ especially when seeing embraced things that no loving sister should believe.

Bear in mind that we are sentimentalists.  The eye is our servant, not our master; and—­so are the senses generally.  We are not bound to accept more than we choose from them.  Thus we obtain delicacy; and thus, as you will perceive, our civilization, by the aid of the sentimentalists, has achieved an effective varnish.  There, certainly, to the vulgar, mind a tail is visible.  The outrageous philosopher declares vehemently that no beast of the field or the forest would own such a tail. (His meaning is, that he discerns the sign of the animal slinking under the garb of the stately polished creature.  I have all the difficulty in the world to keep him back and let me pursue my course.) These philosophers are a bad-mannered body.  Either in opposition, or in the support of them, I maintain simply that the blinking sentimentalist helps to make civilization what it is, and civilization has a great deal of merit.

“Did you not leave your parasol behind you at Ipley?” said Adela, as she met Cornelia in the afternoon.

Cornelia coloured.  Her pride supported her, and she violated fine shades painfully in her response:  “Mr. Barrett left me there.  Is that your meaning?”

Adela was too much shocked to note the courageousness of the reply.  “Well! if all we do is to come into broad daylight!” was her horrified mental ejaculation.

The veil of life was about to be lifted for these ladies.  They found Arabella in her room, crying like an unchastened school-girl; and their first idea was one of intense condemnation—­fresh offences on the part of Mrs. Chump being conjectured.  Little by little Arabella sobbed out what she had heard that day from Mr. Powys.