It was a late meal on
Sunday evening at the Rectory, and the servants soon followed their
betters into the drawing-room for prayers.
Then the Rector lighted his last cigarette, and Mrs. Glynde began to show
symptoms of a patch of pink in either cheek.
At last Jem rose--awkwardly--in the midst of a sally from Dora, who
seemed afraid to stop speaking.
"Must be going," he said; and he shook hands with the Rector.
Mrs. Glynde, with nervous deliberation, kissed him and squeezed his hand
jerkily.
"Dora--will open the door for you," she said, with an apprehensive glance
towards her husband, who, however, showed no inclination to move from his
chair.
Dora not only opened the door, but left it open, and walked with him
across the lawn towards the stile. When they reached it there was a
little pause. He vaulted over and she quietly followed--without his
proffered assistance.
Then at last Jem spoke.
"You don't seem to care!" he said gruffly--with his new voice.
"Oh, _don't!"_ she whispered imploringly.
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