“I complain, Wilfrid, of your want of sympathy.”

“That for two or three weeks you must hear a brogue at your elbow?  The poor creature is not so bad; she is good-hearted.  It’s hard that you should have to bear with her for that time and receive nothing better than Besworth as your reward.”

“Very; seeing that we endure the evil and decline the sop with it.”

“How?”

“We have renounced Besworth.”

“Have you!  And did this renunciation make you all sit on the edge of your chairs, this afternoon, as if Edward Buxley had arranged you?  You give up Besworth?  I’m afraid it’s too late.”

“Oh, Wilfrid! can you be ignorant that something more is involved in the purchase of Besworth?”

Arabella gazed at him with distressful eagerness, as one who believes in the lingering of a vestige of candour.

“Do you mean that my father may wish to give this woman his name?” said Wilfrid coolly.  “You have sense enough to know that if you make his home disagreeable, you are taking the right method to drive him into such a course.  Ha!  I don’t think it’s to be feared, unless you pursue these consultations.  And let me say, for my part, we have gone too far about Besworth, and can’t recede.”

“I have given out everywhere that the place is ours.  I did so almost at your instigation.  Besworth was nothing to me till you cried it up.  And now I won’t detain you.  I know I can rely on your sense, if you will rely on it.  Good night, Bella.”

As she was going a faint spark of courage revived Arabella’s wits.  Seeing that she was now ready to speak, he opened the door wide, and she kissed him and went forth, feeling driven.

But while Arabella was attempting to give a definite version of the interview to her sisters, a message came requesting Adela to descend.  The ladies did not allow her to depart until two or three ingenuous exclamations from her made them share her curiosity.

“Ah?” Wilfrid caught her hand as she came in.  “No, I don’t intend to let it go.  You may be a fine lady, but you’re a rogue, you know, and a charming one, as I hear a friend of mine has been saying.  Shall I call him out?  Shall I fight him with pistols, or swords, and leave him bleeding on the ground, because he thinks you a pretty rogue?”

Adela struggled against the blandishment of this old familiar style of converse—­part fun, part flattery—­dismissed since the great idea had governed Brookfield.

“Please tell me what you called me down for, dear?”

“To give you a lesson in sitting on chairs.  ’Adela, or the Puritan sister,’ thus:  you sit on the extremest edge, and your eyes peruse the ceiling; and...”

“Oh! will you ever forget that perfectly ridiculous scene?” Adela cried in anguish.

She was led by easy stages to talk of Besworth.

“Understand,” said Wilfrid, “that I am indifferent about it.  The idea sprang from you—­I mean from my pretty sister Adela, who is President of the Council of Three.  I hold that young woman responsible for all that they do.  Am I wrong?  Oh, very well.  You suggested Besworth, at all events.  And—­if we quarrel, I shall cut off one of your curls.”