"I don't know about him; but I'm afraid of her," she stammered, as if confessing a shameful deed of her own. A moment later she broke into entreaty. "Go away, dear. Don't get mixed up in it. Don't have anything to do with him."
"Do you go away when your friends are in trouble or in danger?"
Adela felt suddenly small—then wise—then small because her wisdom was of a small kind. Yet she gave it utterance.
"But, Marjory, think of—think of yourself. If you——."
"I know what you're going to say. If I care for him? I don't. I hardly know him. But, if I did, I might—I might be of some use. And are you going to leave her all alone? I thought you were her friend. Are you just going to look on? Though you think—what you think!"
Adela caught hold of the girl's hands. There was a choking in her throat, and she could say nothing.
"But if he sees?" she murmured, when she found speech.
"He won't see. There's nothing to see. I shan't show it. Adela, I shall stay. Why do you think what—what you think?"
People might wonder, if they would—perhaps they did—when Adela drew Marjory towards her, and kissed her lips.
"I couldn't, my dear," she said, "but, if you can, for heaven's sake do. I may be wrong, but—I'm uneasy."