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.”
“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. Spoilt boy was writ large all over his person. “Arthur,” said Mrs. Agar, “you are keeping something from me.”