At this meal they had to drink champagne with her.  Diplomatic Wilfrid had issued the order, with the object, first, of dazzling her vision; and secondly, to set the wheels of her brain in swift motion.  The effect was marvellous; and, had it not been for her determination never to drink alone, the miserable ladies might have applauded it.  Adela, on the rare days when she was fortunate enough to reach Brookfield in time for dinner, was surprised to hear her sisters exclaim, “Oh, the hatefulness of that champagne!” She enjoyed it extremely.  She, poor thing, had again to go through a round of cabs and confectioners’ shops in London.  “If they had said, ‘Oh, the hatefulness of those buns and cold chickens!’” she thought to herself.  Not objecting to champagne at lunch with any particular vehemence, she was the less unwilling to tell her sisters what she had to do for Wilfrid daily.

“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.