Dora seemed to be reflecting. She looked over his head, out of the window, where the fleecy summer clouds floated idly over the sky.
She turned and looked deliberately at the door by which Mrs. Agar had disappeared. It was standing ajar. Then again she reflected, weighing something in her mind.
“Yes,” she replied half-dreamily at length. “I think you have a right to know—there is some one else.”
“Was,” corrected Arthur, with the womanly intuition which was given to him with other womanly traits.
“Was and is,” replied Dora quietly. “His being dead makes no difference so far as you are concerned.”
“Then it was Jem! I was sure it was Jem,” said a third voice.
In the excitement of the moment Mrs. Agar forgot that when ladies and gentlemen stoop to eavesdropping they generally retire discreetly and return after a few moments, humming a tune, hymns preferred.
“I knew that you were there,” said Dora, with a calmness which was not pleasant to the ear. “I saw your black dress through the crack of the door. You did not stand quite still, which was a pity, because the sunlight was on the floor behind you. I was not surprised; it was worthy of you.”
“I take God to witness,” cried Mrs. Agar, “that I only heard the last words as I came back into the room.”
“Don't,” said Dora, “that is blasphemy.”