This appeared to amuse Alice, or at least to please her, for she laughed. “Then I can afford to quit thinking of them, I suppose. It's only that I used to be quite a friend of Mildred's—but there! we needn't to go into that. I've never been a friend of Henrietta Lamb's, though, and I almost wish she weren't taking such pains to be a friend of yours.”
“Oh, but she's not. It's all on account of——”
“On Mildred's account,” Alice finished this for him, coolly. “Yes, of course.”
“It's on account of the two families,” he was at pains to explain, a little awkwardly. “It's because I'm a relative of the Palmers, and the Palmers and the Lambs seem to be old family friends.”
“Something the Adamses certainly are not,” Alice said. “Not with either of 'em; particularly not with the Lambs!” And here, scarce aware of what impelled her, she returned to her former elaborations and colourings. “You see, the differences between Henrietta and me aren't entirely personal: I couldn't go to her house even if I liked her. The Lambs and Adamses don't get on with each other, and we've just about come to the breaking-point as it happens.”
“I hope it's nothing to bother you.”
“Why? A lot of things bother me.”
“I'm sorry they do,” he said, and seemed simply to mean it.
She nodded gratefully. “That's nice of you, Mr. Russell. It helps. The break between the Adamses and the Lambs is a pretty bothersome thing. It's been coming on a long time.” She sighed deeply, and the sigh was half genuine; this half being for her father, but the other half probably belonged to her instinctive rendering of Juliet Capulet, daughter to a warring house. “I hate it all so!” she added.
“Of course you must.”