These
highly-strung, artistic temperaments--but I need not tell you; you know
Arthur almost as well as I do."
Dora answered nothing. It was not the first time that Mrs. Agar had
charged some remark with that weight of significance which, in her
vulgar-minded subtlety, she considered delicate and exceptionally clever.
And each time that Dora heard it she was conscious of a vague discomfort,
as at the approach of some danger, of some interference in her life which
would be too strong for her to resist. It was one of those mean feminine
thrusts to parry which is to acknowledge, to ignore is to admit fear.
"Has he sent them on to you?" she asked after a little pause, resisting
only by a great effort the temptation to look towards the writing-table.
"Yes," was the reply. "It appears that they have been in his possession
for some time. He kept them back for some reason--I cannot think why."
Providence is sometimes unexpectedly kind. Had Mrs. Agar been a different
woman, had she, perhaps, been a better woman, less aggravating, more
discreet, more honourable, she would not have done at this moment
precisely that which Dora was silently praying that she would do.
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