grotesque to Adela); it was already as if it were her home.
"What did you say to him?" the girl 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?" said Adela, staring at the lamp.
"He asked me to speak to her," Godfrey went on.
"To speak to her?"
"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, covering her face with her hands.
"He says she's very rich," said Godfrey simply.
"Is that why you kissed her?"
"I didn't kiss her. Good-night," and the young man, turning his back upon her, went out.
When her brother was gone Adela locked herself in, as if with the fear that 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 pour rire, but she cried about it, all the same. The morning dawned early, or rather it seemed to her that there had been no night, nothing but a sickly, creeping day. But by the time she heard the house stirring again she had determined what to do. When she came down to the breakfast-room her father was already in his place, with newspapers and letters; and she expected the first words he
