xcludes it, because..."

"Yes, yes," returned Adela; "but do we do rightly in submitting to the
absolute tyranny?--I mean, I think, originality flies from us in
consequence."

The pitiable mortal became a trifle more luminous: "The objection is to
the repetition of risked phrases. A happy audacity of expression may
pass. It is bad taste to repeat it, that is all. Then there is the slang
of heavy boorishness, and the slang of impatient wit..."

"Is there any fine distinction between the extremes?" said Cornelia, in
as clear a tone as she could summon.

"I think," observed Arabella, "that whatever shows staleness speedily is
self-condemned; and that is the case with slang."

"And yet it's to avoid some feeling of the sort that people employ it,"
was Adela's remark; and the discussion of this theme dropped lifelessly,
and they walked on as before.

Coming to a halt near the garden gate, Adela tapped Emilia's cheek,
addressing her: "How demure she has become!"

"Ah!" went Arabella, "does she know papa has had a letter from Mr.
Pericles, who wrote from Milan to say that he has made arrangements for
her to enter the Academy there, and will come to fetch her in a few
days?"

Emilia's wrists crossed below her neck, while she gave ear.

"To take me away?" she said.

The tragic attitude and outcry, with the mournful flash of her eyes,
might have told Emilia's tale.

Adela unwillingly shielded her by interpreting the scene. "See! she must
be a born actress. They always exaggerate in that style, so that you
would really think she had a mighty passion for Brookfield."

"Or in it," suggested Freshfield.

"Or in it!" she laughed assentingly.

Mr. Pole was perceived entering the garden, rubbing his hands a little
too obsequiously to some remark of the baronet's, as the critical ladies
imagined. Sir Twickenham's arm spread out in a sweep; Mr. Pole's head
nodded. After the ceremony of the salute, the ladies were informed of Sir
Twickenham's observation: Sir Twickenham Pryme, a statistical member of
Parliament, a well-preserved half-century in age, a gentleman in bearing,
passably grey-headed, his whiskers brushed out neatly, as if he knew them
individually and had the exact amount of them collectively at his
fingers' ends: Sir Twickenham had said of Mr. Pole's infant park that if
devoted to mangold-wurzel it would be productive and would pay: whereas
now it was not ornamental and was waste.

"Sir Twickenham calculates,