"I'm afraid you'll feel a trifle lonely at first," she said with her most friendly smile.
The new girl made room for the Youngest Teacher upon the sofa beside her, and executed a smile of her own—a mechanical, studied, carefully radiant smile that left Belinda gasping.
"Oh, no; I'm never lonely. I'm used to being apart," said Adelina in resigned and impressive tones.
Belinda met the shock with admirable calm.
"Yes, you have no sisters," she said; "brothers are nice, but they're different."
Adelina sighed.
"It isn't my being an only daughter that makes the difference," she explained. "It's my genius, my ambition. Nobody understands and can really sympathise with me, so I've worked on alone."
The "alone" was tolled sadly and accompanied by a slow, sweet, die-away smile that worked automatically.
Belinda's brain fumbled for a clew to the girl's words and affectation, and she looked closely for any earmarks of genius that might clear up the situation.
Suddenly Adelina clasped her hands around her crossed knees, struck a photographic pose, and languishingly turned her great eyes full upon Belinda.