"Yes, he ought to think of mamma;" and Godfrey looked at the tip of his cigarette.
"To such a woman as that, after her!"
"Dear old mamma!" said Godfrey, smoking.
Adela rose again, drying her eyes. "It's like an insult to her; it's as if he denied her." Now that she spoke of it, she felt herself tremendously exalted. "It's as if he rubbed out at a stroke all the years of their happiness."
"They were awfully happy," said Godfrey.
"Think what she was—think how no one else will ever again be like her!" the girl cried.
"I suppose he's not very happy now," Godfrey continued vaguely.
"Of course he isn't, any more than you and I are; and it's dreadful of him to want to be."
"Well, don't make yourself miserable till you're sure," the young man said.
But his sister showed him confidently that she was sure, from the way the pair had behaved together and from her father's attitude on the drive home. If Godfrey had been there he would have seen everything; it couldn't be explained, but he would have felt. When he asked at what moment the girl had first had her suspicion, she replied that it had all come at once, that evening; or that at least she had had no conscious fear till then. There had been signs for two or three weeks, but she hadn't understood them—ever since the day Mrs. Churchley had dined in Seymour Street. Adela had thought it odd then that her father had wished to invite her, in the quiet way they were living; she was a person they knew so little. He had said something about her having been very civil to him, and that evening, already, she had guessed that he had been to Mrs. Churchley's
