Arabella affected to show that they had their troubles; but her statement made it clear that the servants of Brookfield were peculiarly favoured servants, as it was their mistress's pride to make them. Eventually Adela consented to drink some sparkling light wine; and being thirsty she drank eagerly, and her tongue was loosed, insomuch that she talked of things as one who had never been a blessed inhabitant of the kingdom of Fine Shades. She spoke of 'Cornelia's chances;' of 'Wilfrid's headstrong infatuation--or worse;' and of 'Papa's position,' remarking that she could both laugh and cry. Arabella, glad to see her refreshed, was pained by her rampant tone; and when Adela, who had fallen into one of her reflective 'long-shot' moods, chanced to say, "What a number of different beings there are in the world!" her reply was, "I was just then thinking we are all less unlike than we suppose." "Oh, my goodness!" cried Adela. "What! am I at all--at all--in the remotest degree--like that creature we have got rid of?" The negative was not decisively enunciated or immediate; that is, it did not come with the vehemence and volume that could alone have satisfied Adela's expectation. The "We are all of one family" was an offensive truism, of which Adela might justly complain. That night the ladies received their orders from Wilfrid--they were to express no alarm before their father as to the state of his health, or to treat him ostensibly as an invalid; they were to marvel publicly at Mrs. Chump's continued absence, and a letter requesting her to return was to be written. At the sign of an expostulation, Wilfrid smote them down by saying that the old man's life hung on a thread, and it was for them to cut it or not. ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: A marriage without love is dishonour Bear in mind that we are sentimentalists--The eye is our servant I am not ashamed Love that shrieks at a mortal wound, and bleeds humanly Love the poor devil My mistress! My glorious stolen fruit! My dark angel of love Poor mortals are not in the habit of climbing Olympus to ask Revived for them so much of themselves Solitude is pasturage for a suspicion Victims of the modern feminine'ideal'