In view of the important changes in his own life which were about to
supervene, that is to say, firstly, his departure for India, and
secondly, his coming of age before he could hope to return from that land
of promise, he had counted on a quiet evening with his mother. Moreover,
he was vaguely conscious of the fact that a right-minded person would
have carefully abstained from accepting the most pressing invitation to
form a third that evening.
In view of this Jem Agar had recourse to the last refuge of the simple.
He retired within himself, and, so to speak, shut the door. He had dined
with these women before, and knew that the conversation would follow its
usual mazy course through a forest of cross-questions upon all subjects,
and notably upon those intimate matters which were essentially his own
business.
Sister Cecilia, good mistaken soul that she was, tried her best. She was
lively in a Sunday-school-tea style. She was by turns tender and warlike
as occasion seemed to demand; but no scrap or tittle of personal
information did she extract from Jem, stiffly on guard behind his high
collar.
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