She had moreover to do penance, for a wrong committed; and just as children will pinch themselves, pleased up to the verge of unendurable pain, so do sentimentalists find a keen relish in performing secret penance for self-accused offences.  Thus they become righteous to their own hearts, and evade, as they hope, the public scourge.  The wrong committed was (translated out of Fine Shades), that she had made love to her sister’s lover.  In the original tongue—­she had innocently played with the sacred fire of a strange affection; a child in the temple!—­Our penitent child took a keen pinching pleasure in dictating words for Arabella to employ toward Edward.

And then, recurring to her interview with Wilfrid, it struck her:  “Suppose that, after all, Money!...”  Yes, Mammon has acted Hymen before now.  Nothing else explained Mrs. Chump; so she thought, in one clear glimpse.  Inveterate sentimental habit smeared the picture with two exclamations—­“Impossible!” and “Papa!” I desire it to be credited that these simple interjections absolutely obscured her judgement.  Little people think either what they are made to think, or what they choose to think; and the education of girls is to make them believe that facts are their enemies-a naughty spying race, upon whom the dogs of Pudeur are to be loosed, if they surprise them without note of warning.  Adela silenced her suspicion, easily enough; but this did not prevent her taking a measure to satisfy it.  Petting her papa one evening, she suddenly asked him for ninety pounds.

“Ninety!” said Mr. Pole, taking a sharp breath.  He was as composed as possible.

“Is that too much, papa, darling?”

“Not if you want it—­not if you want it, of course not.”

“You seemed astonished.”

“The sum! it’s an odd sum for a girl to want.  Ten, twenty, fifty—­a hundred; but you never hear of ninety, never! unless it’s to pay a debt; and I have all the bills, or your aunt has them.”

“Well, papa, if it excites you, I will do without it.  It is for a charity, chiefly.”

Mr. Pole fumbled in his pocket, muttering, “No money here—­cheque-book in town.  I’ll give it you,” he said aloud, “to-morrow morning—­morrow morning, early.”

“That will do, papa;” and Adela relieved him immediately by shooting far away from the topic.

The ladies retired early to their hall of council in the bedchamber of Arabella, and some time after midnight Cornelia went to her room; but she could not sleep.  She affected, in her restlessness, to think that her spirits required an intellectual sedative, so she went down to the library for a book; where she skimmed many—­a fashion that may be recommended, for assisting us to a sense of sovereign superiority to authors, and also of serene contempt for all mental difficulties.  Fortified in this way, Cornelia took a Plutarch and an Encyclopaedia under her arm, to return to her room.  But one volume fell, and as she stooped to recover it, her