appetite; the bills, and so forth--ending, "What is to be said further
of her?"

In return, Adela's delight was to date each day from a different port,
to which, catching the wind, the party had sailed, and there slept.
The ladies were under the protecting wing of the Hon. Mrs. Bayruffle, a
smooth woman of the world. "You think she must have sinned in her time,
but are certain it will never be known," wrote Adela. "I do confess,
kind as she is, she does me much harm; for when she is near me I begin
to think that Society is everything. Her tact is prodigious; it is
never seen--only felt. I cannot describe her influence; yet it leads to
nothing. I cannot absolutely respect her; but I know I shall miss her
acutely when we part. What charm does she possess? I call her the Hon.
Mrs. Heathen--Captain G., the Hon. Mrs. Balm. I know you hate nicknames.
Be merciful to people yachting. What are we to do? I would look through
a telescope all day and calculate the number of gulls and gannets we
see; but I am not so old as Sir T., and that occupation could not absorb
me. I begin to understand Lady Charlotte and her liking for Mr. Powys
better. He is ready to play or be serious, as you please; but in either
case 'Merthyr is never a buffoon nor a parson'--Lady C. remarked this
morning; and that describes him, if it were not for the detestable fling
at the clergy, which she never misses. It seems in her blood to think
that all priests are hypocrites. What a little boat to be in on a stormy
sea, Bella! She appears to have no concern about it. Whether she adores
Wilfrid or not I do not pretend to guess. She snubs him--a thing he
would bear from nobody but her. I do believe he feels flattered by it.
He is chiefly attentive to Miss Ford, whom I like and do not like, and
like and do not like--but do like. She is utterly cold, and has not an
affection on earth. Sir T.--I have not a dictionary--calls her a fair
clictic, I think. (Let even Cornelia read hard, or woe to her in their
hours of privacy!--his vocabulary grows distressingly rich the more you
know him. I am not uneducated, but he introduces me to words that seem
monsters; I must pretend to know them intimately.) Well, whether a
clictic or not--and pray, burn this letter, lest I should not have
the word correct--she has the air of a pale young princess above any
creature I have seen in the world. I know it has struck Wilfred also; my
darling and I are ever twins in sentiment. He conv