One day Mr. Pericles said to the ladies:  “I shall give a fete:  a party monstre.  In ze air:  on grass.  I beg you to invite friends of yours.”

Before the excogitation of this splendid resolve, he had been observed to wear for some period a conspiratorial aspect.  When it was delivered, and Arabella had undertaken the management of the “party monstre”—­(which was to be on Besworth Lawn, and, as it was not their own party, could be conducted with a sort of quasi-contemptuous superiority to incongruous gatherings)—­this being settled, the forehead of Mr. Pericles cleared and he ceased to persecute Emilia.

“I am not one that is wopped,” he said significantly; nodding to his English hearers, as if this piece of shrewd acquaintance with the expressive mysteries of their language placed them upon equal terms.

It was really ‘a providential thing’ (as devout people phrase it) that Laura Tinley and Mabel Copley should call shortly after this, and invite the ladies to a proposed picnic of theirs on Besworth Lawn.  On Besworth Lawn, of all places! and they used the word ‘picnic.’

“A word suggestive of gnawed drumstick and ginger-beer bottles.”  Adela quoted some scapegoat of her acquaintance, as her way was when she wished to be pungent without incurring the cold sisterly eye of reproof for a vulgarism.

Both Laura and Mabel, when they heard of the mighty entertainment fixed for Besworth Lawn by Mr. Pericles, looked down.  They were invited, and looked up.  There was the usual amount of fencing with the combative Laura, who gave ground at all points, and as she was separating, said (so sweetly!) “Of course you have heard of the arrest of your—­what does one call him?—­friend?—­or a French word?”

“You mean?” quoth Arabella.

“That poor, neatly brushed, nice creature whom you patronized—­who played the organ!” she jerked to Arabella’s dubious eyes.

“And he?” Arabella smiled, complacently.

“Then perhaps you may know that all is arranged for him?” said Laura, interpreting by the look more than the word, after a habit of women.

“Indeed, to tell you the truth, I know nothing,” said Arabella.

“Really?” Laura turned sharply to Cornelia, who met her eyes and did not exhibit one weak dimple.

The story was, that Mr. Chips, the Bookseller of Hillford, objected to the departure of Mr. Barrett, until Mr. Barrett had paid the bill of Mr. Chips:  and had signified his objection in the form of a writ.  “When, if you know anything of law,” said Laura, “you will see why he remains.  For, a writ once served, you are a prisoner.  That is, I believe, if it’s above twenty pounds.  And Mr. Chips’ bill against Mr. Barrett was, I have heard, twenty-three pounds and odd shillings.  Could anything be more preposterous?  And Mr. Chips deserves to lose his money!”