By her judicious and kind interposition, Emma often prevented the disagreeable consequences that threatened to ensue from Griselda’s disputatious habits; but one night it was past her utmost skill to avert a violent storm, which arose about the pronunciation of a word. It began about eleven o’clock. Just as the family were sitting down to supper, seemingly in perfect harmony of spirits, Mr. Bolingbroke chanced to say, “I think the wind is rising.” (He pronounced the word wi*nd, short.)
[Transcriber’s note: What is printed in the original text as an “i” with a breve is rendered here as “i*”.]
“Wi*nd! my dear,” cried his wife, echoing his pronunciation; “do, for heaven’s sake, call it wi*nd.”
The lady sounded this word long.
“Wind! my love,” repeated he after her: “I doubt whether that be the right pronunciation.”
“I am surprised you can doubt it,” said she, “for I never heard any body call it wi*nd but yourself.”
“Did not you, my love? that is very extraordinary: many people, I believe, call it wi*nd.”
“Vulgarians, perhaps!”
“Vulgarians! No, indeed, my dear; very polite, well-informed people.”
Griselda, with a look of unutterable contempt, reiterated the word polite.