more vainly to call up his features.
The--"Does he think of me?" and--"What am I to him?"--such timorous
little feather-play of feminine emotion she knew nothing of: in her
heart was the strong flood of a passion.

She met Edward Buxley and Freshfield Sumner at a cross-path, on their
way to Brookfield; and then Adela joined the party, which soon embraced
Mr. Barrett, and subsequently Cornelia. All moved on in a humming
leisure, chattering by fits. Mr. Sumner was delicately prepared to
encounter Mrs. Chump, "whom," said Adela, "Edward himself finds it
impossible to caricature;" and she affected to laugh at the woman.

"Happy the pencil that can reproduce!" Mr. Barrett exclaimed; and,
meeting his smile, Cornelia said: "Do you know, my feeling is, and I
cannot at all account for it, that if she were a Catholic she would not
seem so gross?"

"Some of the poetry of that religion would descend upon her, possibly,"
returned Mr. Barrett.

"Do you mean," Freshfield said quickly, "that she would stand a fair
chance of being sainted?"

Out of this arose some polite fencing between the two. Freshfield might
have argued to advantage in a Court of law; but he was no match, on such
topics and before such an audience, for a refined sentimentalist. More
than once he betrayed a disposition to take refuge in his class (he
being son to one of the puisne Judges). Cornelia speedily punished him,
and to any correction from her he bowed his head.

Adela was this day gifted with an extraordinary insight. Emilia alone
of the party was as a blot to her; but the others she saw through, as
if they had been walking transparencies. She divined that Edward and
Freshfield had both come, in concert, upon amorous business--that it was
Freshfield's object to help Edward to a private interview with her, and,
in return, Edward was to perform the same service for him with
Cornelia. So that Mr. Barrett was shockingly in the way of both; and the
perplexity of these stupid fellows--who would insist upon wondering why
the man Barrett and the girl Emilia (musicians both: both as it were,
vagrants) did not walk together and talk of quavers and minims--was
extremely comic. Passing the withered tree, Mr. Barrett deserved
thanks from Freshfield, if he did not obtain them; for he lingered,
surrendering his place. And then Adela knew that the weight of Edward
Buxley's remonstrative wrath had fallen on silent Emilia, to whom she
clung fondly.

"I have had a le