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Adela stared. “To a dinner-party?”

“It’s not to be a dinner-party. I want them to know Mrs. Churchley.”

“Is there to be nobody else?”

“Godfrey of course. A family party,” he said with an assurance before which she turned cold.

The girl asked her brother that evening if THAT wasn’t tantamount to an announcement. He looked at her queerly and then said: “I’VE been to see her.”

“What on earth did you do that for?”

“Father told me he wished it.”

“Then he HAS told you?”

“Told me what?” Godfrey asked while her heart sank with the sense of his making difficulties for her.

“That they’re engaged, of course. What else can all this mean?”

“He didn’t tell me that, but I like her.”

“LIKE her!” the girl shrieked.

“She’s very kind, very good.”

“To thrust herself upon us when we hate her? Is that what you call kind? Is that what you call decent?”

“Oh I don’t hate her”–and he turned away as if she bored him.

She called the next day on Mrs. Churchley, designing to break out somehow, to plead, to appeal–“Oh spare us! have mercy on us! let him alone! go away!” But that wasn’t easy when they were face to face. Mrs. Churchley had every intention of getting, as she would have said–she was perpetually using the expression–into touch; but her good intentions were as depressing as a tailor’s misfits. She could never understand that they had no place for her vulgar charity, that their life was filled with a fragrance of perfection for which she had no sense fine enough. She was as undomestic as a shop-front and as out of tune as a parrot. She would either make them live in the streets or bring the streets into their life–it was the same thing. She had evidently never read a book, and she used intonations that Adela had never heard, as if she had been an Australian or an American. She understood everything in a vulgar sense; speaking of Godfrey’s visit to her and praising him according to her idea, saying horrid things about him–that he was awfully good-looking, a perfect gentleman, the kind she liked. How could her father, who was after all in everything else such a dear, listen to a woman, or endure her, who thought she pleased him when she called the son of his dead wife a perfect gentleman? What would he have been, pray? Much she knew about what any of them were! When she told Adela she wanted her to like her the girl thought for an instant her opportunity had come– the chance to plead with her and beg her off. But she presented such an impenetrable surface that it would have been like giving a message to a varnished door. She wasn’t a woman, said Adela; she was an address.

When she dined in Seymour Street the “children,” as the girl called the others, including Godfrey, liked her. Beatrice and Muriel stared shyly and silently at the wonders of her apparel (she was brutally over-dressed) without of course guessing the danger that tainted the air. They supposed her in their innocence to be amusing, and they didn’t know, any more than she did herself, how she patronised them. When she was upstairs with them after dinner Adela could see her look round the room at the things she meant to alter–their mother’s things, not a bit like her own and not good enough for her. After a quarter of an hour of this our young lady felt sure she was deciding that Seymour Street wouldn’t do at all, the dear old home that had done for their mother those twenty years. Was she plotting to transport them all to her horrible Prince’s Gate? Of one thing at any rate Adela was certain: her father, at that moment alone in the dining-room with Godfrey, pretending to drink another glass of wine to make time, was coming to the point, was telling the news. When they reappeared they both, to her eyes, looked unnatural: the news had been told.