Spoilt boy was writ large all over his
person. "Arthur," said Mrs. Agar, "you are keeping something from me."
He shook his feeble head feebly.
"You are, I know you are. What is it?"
This was the only person in all the world who had stirred the heart of
Anna Agar to something like a lasting affection. Once--years before--she
had loved Seymour Michael with a sudden volcanic passion which had as
suddenly turned to hatred. But under no circumstances could such a love
have endured. Consistency, constancy, singleness of purpose were quite
lacking in this woman's composition. It is rare, but when a woman does
fail in this respect, her failure is more complete, more miserable than
the failure of men, inconstant as they are.
Her affection for Arthur, coupled with that suspicion which always goes
with a cheap cunning, had put her on the right scent.
"Tell me," she said, "I insist on knowing."
Still he held his peace, with the obstinate silence of the weak.
"Well, then," she cried, "don't ask me to help you to win Dora, that is
all!"
There was a pause; in the silence of the great house the wind moaned
softly.
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