Arthur knew that he ought to have told his mother then and there that Jem had taken every step in his power to advise him as soon as possible of the falseness of the news transmitted to the newspapers. But something held him silent, some taint of hereditary untruthfulness.
“I do not see,” she said, “that this news can, therefore, make much difference. There is no reason to alter any of our plans. To begin with, I am certain that he is dead. We must have heard by this time if he had been living.”
Arthur gave a little nod of acquiescence.
“And also,” pursued Mrs. Agar, with characteristic inconsistency, “he evidently does not care about us or our feelings.”
Arthur knew what she meant, and he descended as low in the moral scale as ever he went during his life.
“But,” he said, “there is, all the same, no time to lose.”
He passed his hand over his sleek, lifeless hair with a weary look.
“Well, dear,” said his mother soothingly, “I will see Ellen Glynde to-morrow, and try to make her say something to Dora. A girl's mother has always more influence than her father.”
This idiotic axiom seemed to satisfy Arthur, probably because he knew no better, and he rose to take his bedroom candlestick.
Mrs. Agar was a person utterly incapable of harbouring two thoughts at the same moment. She never even got so far as to place two sides of a question upon an equal footing in her mind. All her questions had but one side. She was not thinking of Arthur when she went to her room. She was not thinking of him when she lay staring at the daylight, which had crept up into the sky before she closed her eyes.