converse; they were mentally at work comparing notes with one another's
imaginary conversations, while they said "Yes," and "Indeed," and "I
think so," and appeared to belong to the world about them.

"Merthyr, I do you the honour to hand this young lady to your charge,"
said Lady Gosstre, putting on equal terms with Emilia a gentleman of
perhaps five-and-thirty years; who reminded her of Mr. Barrett, but was
unclouded by that look of firm sadness which characterized the poor
organist. Mr. Powys was a travelled Welsh squire, Lady Gosstre's best
talker, on whom, as Brookfield learnt to see, she could perfectly rely to
preserve the child from any little drawing-room sins or dinner-table
misadventures. This gentleman had made sacrifices for the cause of
Italy, in money, and, it was said, in blood. He knew the country and
loved the people. Brookfield remarked that there was just a foreign
tinge in his manner; and that his smile, though social to a degree
unknown to the run of English faces, did not give him all to you, and at
a second glance seemed plainly to say that he reserved much.

Adela fell to the lot of a hussar-captain: a celebrated beauty, not too
foolish. She thought it proper to punish him for his good looks till
propitiated by his good temper.

Nobody at Brookfield could remember afterwards who took Arabella down to
dinner; she declaring that she had forgotten. Her sisters, not unwilling
to see insignificance banished to annihilation, said that it must have
been nobody in person, and that he was a very useful guest when ladies
were engaged. Cornelia had a different lot. She leaned on the right arm
of the Member for Hillford, the statistical debate, Sir Twickenham Pryme,
who had twice before, as he ventured to remind her, enjoyed the honour of
conversing, if not of dining, with her. Nay, more, he revived their