She looked at him appealingly. "Mrs. Bronson's on it too—one of the originators of it."
"Oh!" John was silent. Here was, indeed, a question. Mrs. Bronson, the Beaminster arch-enemy. Mrs. Bronson, who had snapped her bejewelled American fingers at the Duchess—Mrs. Bronson, who called the Beaminsters the most insulting names. Why, a fortnight ago any alliance with such a woman was unthinkable, incredible—
"I believe," went on Lady Adela, "that she herself proposed that I should be asked...."
A fortnight ago ... and now—
John knew that he was glad that Adela wished to join the committee, he knew that he was closer to Adela now than he had ever been at any moment during their lives together.
He looked across at her and their eyes met and in that glance exchanged between them barriers were broken down, curtains turned aside—they would never be strangers again.
"Mother isn't well." Adela said quite firmly. "Hasn't been well for a long time—we've all known it. She has felt this war and—and other things very much. She will feel my going on to the same committee as Mrs. Bronson—she will certainly feel it. But I think it's my duty to do so. After all, on an occasion like this family feeling must give way before national ones." Why did not the walls and foundations of No. 104 Portland Place rock and quiver before the horrid sacrilege of such words? John, himself, almost expected them to do so and yet he was of his sister's opinion.
"I think you are perfectly right, Adela," he said.
"Oh! I'm so glad that you do. I don't want to worry mother, just now. I'm frankly rather nervous about telling her—but it must be done."
"It's odd, Adela," said John, leaning back in his chair and crossing his fat legs. "But something real like this war, a ghastly day with boys shouting horrors at you followed by another ghastly day with more boys shouting more horrors, it does shake one's life up. I've been very cowardly, Adela, about a number of things. I see that now. I've never really wanted to see it before. It makes one uncomfortable."