"Only till to-morrow morning. They are sending me straight to Madrid. I came down to say good-by; there's a fellow bringing my portmanteau."
"To Madrid? How awfully nice! And it's awfully nice of you to have come," Adela said, passing her hand into his arm.
The movement made him stop, and, stopping, he turned on her, in a flash, a face of something more than suspicion—of passionate reprobation. "What I really came for—you might as well know without more delay—is to ask you a question."
"A question?" Adela repeated with a beating heart.
They stood there, under the old trees, in the lingering light, and, young and fine and fair as they both were, they were in complete superficial accord with the peaceful English scene. A near view, however, would have shown that Godfrey Chart had not come down to Overland to be superficial. He looked deep into his sister's eyes and demanded: "What was it you said that morning to Mrs. Churchley?"
Adela gazed at the ground a moment; then, raising her eyes: "If she has told you, why do you ask?"
"She has told me nothing. I've seen for myself."
"What have you seen?"
"She has broken it off—everything's over—father's in the depths."
"In the depths?" the girl quavered.
"Did you think it would make him jolly?" asked her brother.
"He'll get over it; he'll be glad."
"That remains to be seen. You interfered, you invented something, you got round her. I insist on knowing what you did."
Adela felt that she could be obstinate if she wished,
