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 letter," Edward murmured, in the voice that propitiates secresy.
"A letter ?" she cried loud; and off flew the man like a rabbit into his hole, the mask of him remaining.
Emilia presently found Mr.Barrett at her elbow.

His hand clasped the book Cornelia had placed in the tree.
"It is hers," said Emilia.
He opened it and pointed to his initials.

She looked in his face.
"Are you very ill ?" Adela turned round from Edward's neighbouring head.