“Read it?” said Alfred. “I never read it: would not read it for a great deal of money. The moment I saw what a senseless rigmarole it was, I flung it down and insisted on the battological author furnishing me with an English translation. He complied: the crib occupies just twenty lines; the original three folio pages, as you see. That crib, gentlemen,” added he severely, “is now in my waistcoat pocket; and you shall never see it--for your impudence. No, seat yourself by that pool of parchment (sedet eternumque sedebit, &c.) and fish for Lawyer Crawford's ideas, rari nantes in gurgite vasto.” And with this he flew up-stairs on the wings of love. Julia met him in the middle of the room all in a flutter: “It is to ask you a favour. I am unhappy--about one thing.” She then leaned one hand softly on his shoulder, and curving her lovely supple neck looked round into his face and watched it as she preferred her petition: “It is about Jane and you. I cannot bear to part you two in this way: only think six days you have not spoken, and I am the cause.” “Not the only cause, love.” “I don't know, darling. But it is very cruel. I have got my dear mother and Edward; you have nobody--but Me. Alfred,” said she with gentle impetuosity, “now is your time; your papa is away.” “Oh, is he?” said Alfred carelessly. “Yes. Sarah says Betty says he is gone to Uncle Thomas. So I know you won't refuse me, my own Alfred: it is to go to your sister this minute and make it up.” “What, and leave you?” objected Alfred ruefully. “No, no; you are with the gentlemen, you know: you are not here, _in reality,_ till tea. Make them an excuse: say the truth; say it is Me; and come back to me with good news.” He consented on these terms. Then she armed him with advice: “You go to make peace; it is our last chance; now remember, you must be very generous, very sweet-tempered. Guard against your impetuosity. Do take warning by me; see how impetuous I am. And then, you know, after all, she is only a lady, and a great creature like you ought not to be ruffled by anything so small as a lady's tongue: the idea! And, dearest, don't go trusting to your logic, but _do_ descend to the arts of persuasion, because they are far more convincing somehow: please try them.” “Yes. Enumerate them.” “Why, kissing and coaxing, and--don't ask _me._” “Will you bestow a specimen of those arts on me if I succeed?” “Try me,” said she: and looked him earnestly in the face; but lowered her long lashes slowly and shyly, as she realised to what her Impetuosity was pledging itself. Alfred got his hat and ran to Musgrove Cottage. A man stepped out of the shadow of a hedge opposite Albion Villa, and followed him, keeping in shadow as much as possible.