While Ruthine wrote he went on speaking.
“We must get him upstairs at once,” he said. “I should like to have him in bed before the doctor comes.”
In answer to the bell, rung a second time, the servant came, looking white and scared.
“Show Dr. Ruthine Mr. Arthur's room,” said Jem; and Ruthine took Arthur up in his arms like a child.
When they had gone there was a silence. Mrs. Agar made no attempt to follow. She sat down again on the sofa, swaying backwards and forwards. Perhaps she was dimly aware that there remained something still to be said.
Jem Agar crossed the room and stood in front of her. Dora, from the background, was pleading with her eyes for this woman. There were the makings of a very hard man in James Edward Makerstone Agar, and seven years of the grimmest soldiering of modern days had done nothing to soften him. He was strictly just; but it is not justice that women want. To all men there comes a time when they recognise the fact that all their time and all their energies are required for the taking care of one woman, and that all the rest must take care of themselves.
“You may stay,” he said to his step-mother, “until Arthur is removed from this house—but no longer. I shall never pretend to forgive you, and I never want to see you again.”
Mrs. Agar made no answer, nor did she look up.
“Go,” said Jem, with a little jerk of his head towards the door.
Slowly she rose, and without looking at either of them she passed out of the room.