Neither Hill nor his grave young fiancee seemed aware of any cause for
mirth, but with Adela that was neither here nor there. She and Dot never
had anything in common, and as for Fletcher Hill, he was the driest stick
of a man she had ever met. But she was not going to be bored on that
account. To give Adela her due, boredom was a malady from which she very
rarely suffered.
She was in the best of spirits on the evening of their arrival at
Trelevan. The rooms that Fletcher Hill had managed to secure for them led
out of each other, and the smaller of them, Dot's looked out over the
busiest part of the town. As Adela pointed out, this was an advantage of
little value at night, and it could be shared in the daytime.
Dot said nothing. She was used to her sister-in-law's cheerful egotism,
and Adela had never hesitated to invade her privacy if she felt so
inclined. Her chief consolation was that Adela was a very sound sleeper,
so that there was small chance of having her solitude disturbed at night.
She herself was not sleeping so well as usual just then. A great
restlessness was upon her, and often she would pace to and fro like a
caged thing for half the night. She was not actively unhappy, but a great
weight seemed to oppress her--a sense of foreboding that was sometimes
more than she could bear.
Fletcher Hill's calm countenance as he welcomed them upon their arrival
reassured her somewhat.
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