Over these things the Rector pondered. He felt the difference in Dora. She was still his daughter, but no longer a child. Her existence was still his chief care, but he could only stand by and help a little here and there; for the dependency of childhood was left behind, and her evident intention was to work out her own life in her own way. So do those who are dependent by nature upon the advice and sympathy of others learn to lean only upon their own strength.
In the room overhead, standing by the window with weary eyes, Dora was murmuring: "I wonder--I wonder if I shall be able to hold out against them all."
"That is just what I can't do. I cannot afford to wait."
Arthur Agar drew in his neatly-shod little feet, and leant back in the deep chair which was always set aside as his in the Stagholme drawing-room.
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."
He stirred his tea with an effeminate appreciation of fine Coalport and a dainty Norwegian spoon.
Arthur was silent; he looked very small and frail, almost childlike, in his silk-faced evening coat. Spoilt boy was writ large all over his person. "Arthur," said Mrs. Agar, "you are keeping something from me."
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.