She was slightly
disappointed in his laugh, even wounded by it, but she knew perfectly
what she meant: she meant that Mrs. Churchley was public and florid,
promiscuous and mannish.
"Oh I daresay she's all right," he said as if he wanted to get on
with his work. He looked at the clock on the mantel-shelf; he would
have to put in another hour.
"All right to come and take darling mamma's place--to sit where SHE
used to sit, to lay her horrible hands on HER things?" Adela was
appalled--all the more that she hadn't expected it--at her brother's
apparent acceptance of such a prospect.
He coloured; there was something in her passionate piety that
scorched him. She glared at him with tragic eyes--he might have
profaned an altar. "Oh I mean that nothing will come of it."
"Not if we do our duty," said Adela. And then as he looked as if he
hadn't an idea of what that could be: "You must speak to him--tell
him how we feel; that we shall never forgive him, that we can't
endure it."
"He'll think I'm cheeky," her brother returned, looking down at his
papers with his back to her and his hands in his pockets.
"Cheeky to plead for HER memory?"
"He'll say it's none of my business."
"Then you believe he'll do it?" cried the girl.
"Not a bit. Go to bed!"
"I'LL speak to him"--she had turned as pale as a young priestess.
"Don't cry out till you're hurt; wait till he speaks to YOU."
"He won't, he won't!" she declared.
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