"He's very bad."
"Who?" Her fingers were torturing each other.
"James. And Alexander—Alexander isn't like himself, Theresa."
"Isn't he?"
"No. He's—so morose. I hardly had a word with him. I own I was a little hurt."
If her father had looked at her, he would have seen the strain of her smile as she dared herself to speak her fear.
"Perhaps he is in love," she said.
"Oh, I hope not. But"—he was reluctant—"I must confess that Janet—Janet hinted something, vague as herself. But I hope not."
She spared him some of her aching pity for herself, and answered steadily: "He must be twenty-eight. Quite old enough to marry. People are very disagreeable when they are in love." But as she drove the nails into her palms, she was saying over and over again: "Thank God I didn't write to him. Thank God I didn't do it!"
And if she had a prayer, it was that she might not dream about the hills.