Adèle smiled faintly: "It will be best to say nothing to mamma at present, nor to anybody; we can surely be what we have been to one another—brother and sister; we have never been more—we could not wish to be less."
There was a tinge of bitterness in Adèle's voice as she said the last words, but the ears of very young men, when not quickened by any stronger feeling than brotherly affection, are not swift to catch these slight intonations.
"You must let me be your friend and confidante, Arthur," she continued more gently; "I shall still like to be the first to know everything that nearly concerns you."
Her gentleness touched Arthur. He took one of her hands in his: "You shall always be what you are to me, Adèle—my dearest friend and counsellor. I shall come to you for advice and sympathy."
She rose, and stooping began to collect the fallen flowers—a pretext only, for the tears were beginning to force their way to her eyes, and she was determined to show no weakness in her cousin's presence.
"My poor flowers!" she said lightly, "they have been forgotten: go and fetch another vase from the breakfast-room, like a good old fellow. I have filled all here, and I want these up stairs."
By the time her cousin had returned with the vase Adèle was herself again. Grouping the flowers delicately, with clever fingers well accustomed to this kind of work, she began her gentle catechism: "Have you seen her again, Arthur?"
Perhaps it was a relief to him to unburden himself, to pour out to another the torrent of self-condemnation that had been oppressing him.
"Don't ask me, Adèle," he said, pacing the room excitedly. "I am a wretch—a fool—an idiot! I mistook her—think of it! I wonder will she ever be able to bear the sight of me again? I took the advice of a villain, who knows nothing whatever about women like her."
"What can you mean, Arthur?" broke in Adèle, whose flowers had fallen from her hands in her astonishment.