A great sob went through Dot. Her trouble was more than she could bear.
She clung to Adela with unaccustomed closeness.

"I've promised to marry Fletcher at the end of the week--instead of going
back with you to the farm."

"I thought that was what he was after," said Adela. "But--don't you want
to?"

"No," whispered Dot, trembling.

"Well, why don't you tell him so--tell him he's got to wait? Shall I
tell him for you, you poor little thing?" Adela's voice was full of
compassion.

But Dot was instant in her refusal. "No, oh, no! Don't tell him! I--I
couldn't give him--any particular reason for waiting. I shall feel
better--I'm sure I shall feel better--when it's over."

"I expect you will," said Adela. "But I don't like your being miserable.
I say, Dot--" she clasped the quivering form closer, with a sudden rare
flash of intuition--"there isn't--anyone else you like better, is there?"

But at that Dot started as if she had been stung, and drew herself
swiftly away. "Oh, no!" she said, vehemently. "No--no--no!"

"Then I shouldn't worry," said Adela, sensibly. "It's nothing but
nerves."