When
they reappeared they both, to her eyes, looked unnatural: the news
had been told.
She had it from Godfrey before Mrs. Churchley left the house, when,
after a brief interval, he followed her out of the drawing-room on
her taking her sisters to bed. She was waiting for him at the door
of her room. Her father was then alone with his fiancee--the word
was grotesque to Adela; it was already as if the place were her home.
"What did you say to him?" our young woman asked when her brother had
told her.
"I said nothing." Then he added, colouring--the expression of her
face was such--"There was nothing to say."
"Is that how it strikes you?"--and she stared at the lamp.
"He asked me to speak to her," Godfrey went on.
"In what hideous sense?"
"To tell her I was glad."
"And did you?" Adela panted.
"I don't know. I said something. She kissed me."
"Oh how COULD you?" shuddered the girl, who covered her face with her
hands.
"He says she's very rich," her brother returned.
"Is that why you kissed her?"
"I didn't kiss her. Good-night." And the young man, turning his
back, went out.
When he had gone Adela locked herself in as with the fear she should
be overtaken or invaded, and during a sleepless feverish memorable
night she took counsel of her uncompromising spirit. She saw things
as they were, in all the indignity of life. The levity, the mockery,
the infidelity, the ugliness, lay as plain as a map before her; it
was a world of gross practical jokes, a world pour rire; but she
cried about it all the same.
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