“Three times a week I go to see Emilia at Lady Gosstre’s town-house.  Mr. Powys has gone to Italy, and Miss Ford remains, looking, if I can read her, such a temper.  On the other days I am taken by Wilfrid to the arcades, or we hire a brougham to drive round the park,—­for nothing but the chance of seeing that girl an instant.  Don’t tell me it’s to meet Lady Charlotte!  That lovely and obliging person it is certainly not my duty to undeceive.  She’s now at Stornley, and speaks of our affairs to everybody, I dare say.  Twice a week Wilfrid—­oh! quite casually! —­calls on Miss Ford, and is gratified, I suppose; for this is the picture:—­ There sits Emilia, one finger in her cheek, and the thumb under her chin, and she keeps looking down so.  Opposite is Miss Ford, doing some work—­ making lint for patriots, probably.  Then Wilfrid, addressing commonplaces to her; and then Emilia’s father—­a personage, I assure you! up against the window, with a violin.  I feel a bitter edge on my teeth still!  What do you think he does to please his daughter for one while hour!  He draws his fingers—­does nothing else; she won’t let him; she won’t hear a tune-up the strings in the most horrible caterwaul, up and down.  It is really like a thousand lunatics questioning and answering, and is enough to make you mad; but there that girl sits, listening.  Exactly in this attitude—­so.  She scarcely ever looks up.  My brother talks, and occasionally steals a glance that way.  We passed one whole hour as I have described.  In the middle of it, I happened to look at Wilfrid’s face, while the violin was wailing down.  I fancied I heard the despair of one of those huge masks in a pantomime.  I was almost choked.”

When Adela had related thus much, she had to prevent downright revolt, and spoil her own game, by stating that Wilfrid did not leave the house for his special pleasure, and a word, as to the efforts he was making to see Mr. Pericles, convinced the ladies that his situation was as pitiable as their own.

Cornelia refused to obey her lover’s mandate, and wrote briefly.  She would not condescend to allude to the unutterable wretchedness afflicting her, but spoke of her duty to her father being foremost in her prayers for strength.  Sir Purcell interpreted this as indicating the beginning of their alienation.  He chided her gravely in an otherwise pleasant letter.  She was wrong to base her whole reply upon the little sentence of reproach, but self-justification was necessary to her spirit.  Indeed, an involuntary comparison of her two suitors was forced on her, and, dry as was Sir Twickenham’s mind, she could not but acknowledge that he had behaved with an extraordinary courtesy, amounting to chivalry, in his suit.  On two occasions he had declined to let her be pressed to decide.  He came to the house, and went, like an ordinary visitor.  She was indebted to him for that splendid luxury of indecision, which so few of the maids of earth enjoy for a lengthened term.