She had learnt something of the
world during her brief season in town, and one of the lessons had been
that the world sees more than is often credited to it.
"The worst," she said cheerfully, "of a season in town is that it makes
one feel aged and experienced. Middle age came upon me suddenly, just
now, in the garden."
Mr. Glynde was looking at her almost critically over his newspaper.
"How old are you?" he asked curtly.
"Twenty-five."
In some indefinite way the question jarred horribly. Dora was conscious
of a faint doubt in the infallibility of her father's judgment. She knew
that in a worldly sense he was more experienced, more thoughtful,
cleverer than her mother, but in some ways she inclined towards the
maternal opinion on questions connected with herself.
At this moment Mrs. Glynde was called from the room, and went
reluctantly, feeling that the time was unpropitious.
Mr. Glynde's life had been eminently uneventful. Prosperous, happy in a
half-hearted, almost negative, way, somewhat selfish, he had never known
hardship, had never faced adversity.
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