bedroom (mine), for which she expressed a
preference. Prepare every mind for the ceremony:--an old man's
infatuation--money--we submit. It will take place in town. To have the
Tinleys in the church! But this is certainly my experience, that
misfortune makes me feel more and more superior to those whom I despise.
I have even asked myself--was I so once? And, Apropos of Laura! We hear
that their evenings are occupied in performing the scene at Besworth.
They are still as distant as ever from Richford. Let me add that Albert
Tinley requested my hand in marriage yesterday. I agree with Cornelia
that this is the first palpable sign that we have sunk. Consequent upon
the natural consequences came the interview with Papa.

"Dearest, dearest Wilfrid! can you, can I, can any one of us settle--that
is, involve another life in doubt while doubt exists? Papa insists; his
argument is, 'Now, now, and no delay.' I accuse nothing but his love.
Excessive love is perilous for principle!

"You have understood me, I know, and forgiven me for writing so nakedly.
I dare not reperuse it. You must satisfy him that Lady C. has fixed a
date. Adela is incomprehensible. One day she sees a friend in Lady C.,
and again it is an enemy. Papa's immediate state of health is not
alarming. Above all things, do not let the girl come near him. Papa will
send the cheque you required."

"When?" Wilfrid burst out upon Arabella's affectionate signature. "When
will he send it? He doesn't do me the honour to mention the time. And
this is his reply to a third application!"

The truth was that Wilfrid was in dire want of tangible cash simply to
provision his yacht. The light kindled in him by this unsatisfied need
made him keen to comprehend all that Arabella's attempt at plain writing
designed to unfold.

"Good God, my father's the woman's trustee!" shaped itself in Wilfrid's
brain.

And next: "If he marries her we may all be as poor as before." That is to
say, "Honour may be saved without ruin being averted."

His immediate pressing necessity struck like a pulse through all the
chords of dismal conjecture. His heart flying about for comfort, dropped
at Emilia's feet.

"Bella's right," he said, reverting to the green page in his hand; "we
can't involve others in our scrape, whatever it may be."

He ceased on the spot to be at war with himself, as he had been for many
a day; by which he was taught to imagine that he had achieved a mental
indifference to