"Oh! the same. She won't say anything—she confides in nobody."
John looked at his sister and wondered why it was that he had never, during all these years, considered her as a personality or as anything actively happy or miserable. She had had, he suddenly supposed, a life of her own that was, in a way, as acute and sensitive as his and yet he had never realized this.
He had always taken his mother's word for it that Adela was a dried-up stick who resented interference; now he was sure that that judgment was short-sighted, and then, upon this, came criticism of his mother; therefore, to banish such disloyalty, he said hurriedly:
"I didn't enjoy the Massiters a bit—longed to get away—Sunday was miserable——"
Adela said—"I never could bear them—John——" she stopped.
"Yes," he said, looking across at her. His large good-tempered eyes met hers and then the colour mounted very slowly into her cheeks. He had never seen her agitated before—
"John—" she began again. "I must do something. I can't sit here—just quietly—going on as though nothing were happening. I know—all one's life one's stood aside rather, I've never wanted to interfere with anyone. But now, this war has made one feel differently, I think."
"Well?" said her brother.
"Well—an organization is being formed—women, you know—to help in some way. They're going to do everything, make clothes, have sales and concerts and get money together. It's to be a big thing—Nelly Ponsonby, Clara Raddleton, lots of others.... They've asked me to be on the committee——"
"Well?" said John, "why not?"