oftener than she had supposed. To-night it had come to her clearly that he had been to see her every day since the day she dined with them; every afternoon, about the hour she thought he was at his club. Mrs. Churchley was his club,—she was just like a club. At this Godfrey laughed; he wanted to know what his sister knew about clubs. She was slightly disappointed in his laugh, slightly wounded by it, but she knew perfectly what she meant: she meant that Mrs. Churchley was public and florid, promiscuous and mannish.
"Oh, I dare say she's all right," said Godfrey, as if he wanted to get on with his work. He looked at the clock on the mantelshelf; 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 had not 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 her tragic eyes as if he had profaned an altar. "Oh, I mean nothing will come of it."
"Not if we do our duty," said Adela.
"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," returned Godfrey, 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!"