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Before they rose from table she felt herself wholly bewildered, so little were such large causes traceable in their effects. She had nerved herself for a great ordeal, but the air was as sweet as an anodyne. It was perfectly plain to her that her father was deadly sore–as pathetic as a person betrayed. He was broken, but he showed no resentment; there was a weight on his heart, but he had lightened it by dressing as immaculately as usual for dinner. She asked herself what immensity of a row there could have been in town to have left his anger so spent. He went through everything, even to sitting with his son after dinner. When they came out together he invited Beatrice and Muriel to the billiard-room, and as Miss Flynn discreetly withdrew Adela was left alone with Godfrey, who was completely changed and not now in the least of a rage. He was broken too, but not so pathetic as his father. He was only very correct and apologetic he said to his sister: “I’m awfully sorry YOU were annoyed–it was something I never dreamed of.”

She couldn’t think immediately what he meant; then she grasped the reference to her extraordinary invader. She was uncertain, however, what tone to take; perhaps his father had arranged with him that they were to make the best of it. But she spoke her own despair in the way she murmured “Oh Godfrey, Godfrey, is it true?”

“I’ve been the most unutterable donkey–you can say what you like to me. You can’t say anything worse than I’ve said to myself.”

“My brother, my brother!”–his words made her wail it out. He hushed her with a movement and she asked: “What has father said?”

He looked very high over her head. “He’ll give her six hundred a year.”

“Ah the angel!”–it was too splendid.

“On condition”–Godfrey scarce blinked–“she never comes near me. She has solemnly promised, and she’ll probably leave me alone to get the money. If she doesn’t–in diplomacy–I’m lost.” He had been turning his eyes vaguely about, this way and that, to avoid meeting hers; but after another instant he gave up the effort and she had the miserable confession of his glance. “I’ve been living in hell.”

“My brother, my brother!” she yearningly repeated.

“I’m not an idiot; yet for her I’ve behaved like one. Don’t ask me– you mustn’t know. It was all done in a day, and since then fancy my condition; fancy my work in such a torment; fancy my coming through at all.”

“Thank God you passed!” she cried. “You were wonderful!”

“I’d have shot myself if I hadn’t been. I had an awful day yesterday with the governor; it was late at night before it was over. I leave England next week. He brought me down here for it to look well–so that the children shan’t know.”

“HE’S wonderful too!” Adela murmured.

“Wonderful too!” Godfrey echoed.

“Did SHE tell him?” the girl went on.

“She came straight to Seymour Street from here. She saw him alone first; then he called me in. THAT luxury lasted about an hour.”

“Poor, poor father!” Adela moaned at this; on which her brother remained silent. Then after he had alluded to it as the scene he had lived in terror of all through his cramming, and she had sighed forth again her pity and admiration for such a mixture of anxieties and such a triumph of talent, she pursued: “Have you told him?”

“Told him what?”

“What you said you would–what I did.”

Godfrey turned away as if at present he had very little interest in that inferior tribulation. “I was angry with you, but I cooled off. I held my tongue.”

She clasped her hands. “You thought of mamma!”

“Oh don’t speak of mamma!” he cried as in rueful tenderness.