Mother and son were alone in the vast, somewhat gloomy apartment. Arthur
had been home six hours, and the subject of their conversation was, of
course, Dora.
Sister Cecilia was absent, only in obedience to a very unmistakable hint
in one of Arthur's recent letters to his mother.
"Only a little while," pleaded Mrs. Agar. "Of course, dear, it will all
come right. I feel convinced of that. Only you see, dear, girls do not
like to be hurried in such an important step. I am quite sure she cares
for you; only you _must_ give her a little time."
"But I can't, I can't," he repeated anxiously. And his face wore that
strangely accentuated look of trouble which almost amounted to
dread--dread of something in life which had not come yet.
"Why not?" inquired Mrs. Agar. "You are both young enough, I am sure."
"Oh, yes, we are young enough."
He stirred his tea with an effeminate appreciation of fine Coalport and a
dainty Norwegian spoon.
"Then why should you not wait?"
Arthur was silent; he looked very small and frail, almost childlike, in
his silk-faced evening coat.
Pages:
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263