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.

He replied:  “That would have been my idea under other conditions,” and looked meaningly.

She met the look with:  “There are harsh conditions in life, are there not?” and left him sufficiently occupied by his own sensations.

“Mr. Barrett,” she inquired (partly to assist the wretch out of his compromising depression, and also that the question represented a real matter of debate in her mind), “I want your opinion; will you give it me?  Apropos of slang, why does it sit well on some people?  It certainly does not vulgarize them.  After all, in many cases, it is what they call ’racy idiom.’  Perhaps our delicacy is strained?”

Now, it was Mr. Barrett’s established manner to speak in a deliberately ready fashion upon the introduction of a new topic.  Habit made him, on this occasion, respond instantly; but the opening of the gates displayed the confusion of ideas within and the rageing tumult.

He said:  “In many cases.  There are two sorts.  If you could call it the language of nature! which anything...I beg your pardon, Slang!  Polite society rightly excludes it, because...”

“Yes, yes,” returned Adela; “but do we do rightly in submitting to the absolute tyranny?—­I mean, I think, originality flies from us in consequence.”

The pitiable mortal became a trifle more luminous:  “The objection is to the repetition of risked phrases.  A happy audacity of expression may pass.  It is bad taste to repeat it, that is all.  Then there is the slang of heavy boorishness, and the slang of impatient wit...”