The sisters, in their unfailing midnight consultation, persuaded one another that Wilfrid had become engaged to that lady.  They wrote forthwith Fine Shades to him on the subject.  His answer was Boeotian, and all about Besworth.  “Press it now,” he said, “if you really want it.  The iron is hot.  And above all things, let me beg you not to be inconsiderate to the squire, when he and I are doing all we can for you.  I mean, we are bound to consider him, if there should happen to be anything he wishes us to do.”

What could the word ‘inconsiderate’ imply?  The ladies were unable to summon an idea to solve it.  They were sure that no daughters could be more perfectly considerate and ready to sacrifice everything to their father.  In the end, they deputed the volunteering Adela to sit with him in the library, and put the question of Besworth decisively, in the name of all.  They, meantime, who had a contempt for sleep, waited aloft to hold debate over the result of the interview.

An hour after midnight, Adela came to them, looking pale and uncertain:  her curls seeming to drip, and her blue eyes wandering about the room, as if she had seen a thing that kept her in a quiver between belief and doubt.

The two ladies drew near to her, expressing no verbal impatience, from which the habit of government and great views naturally saved them, but singularly curious.

Adela’s first exclamation:  “I wish I had not gone,” alarmed them.

“Has any change come to papa?” breathed Arabella.

Cornelia smiled.  “Do you not know him too well?”

An acute glance from Adela made her ask whether Besworth was to be surrendered.

“Oh, no! my dear.  We may have Besworth.”

“Then, surely!”

“But, there are conditions?” said Arabella.

“Yes.  Wilfrid’s enigma is explained.  Bella, that woman has seen papa.”

“What woman?”

“Mrs. Chump.”

“She has our permission to see him in town, if that is any consolation to her.”

“She has told him,” continued Adela, “that no explanation, or whatever it may be, was received by her.”

“Certainly not, if it was not sent.”

“Papa,” and Adela’s voice trembled, “papa will not think of Besworth,—­ not a word of it!-until—­until we consent to welcome that woman here as our guest.”

Cornelia was the first to break the silence that followed this astounding intelligence.  “Then,” she said, “Besworth is not to be thought of.  You told him so?”

Adela’s head drooped.  “Oh!” she cried, “what shall we do?  We shall be a laughing-stock to the neighbourhood.  The house will have to be locked up.  We shall live like hermits worried by a demon.  Her brogue!  Do you remember it?  It is not simply Irish.  It’s Irish steeped in brine.  It’s pickled Irish!”

She feigned the bursting into tears of real vexation.