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. It always moaned in the drawing-room, whether in calm or storm, from some undiscovered draught in the high ventilated ceiling.
“I sometimes think,” said Arthur at length, in an awestruck voice, “that Jem may not be dead.”
“Not dead! Arthur, how can you be so stupid?”