"No. Nor have I the least clue to its contents. I only know that your father was a sensible man, and attached great importance to it. If you come I will give it to you now."
They both rose and left the dining-room together. As they went up-stairs she said:
"I am aware for some time you have not been quite certain as to the side you would throw in your lot with. I don't think your father ever contemplated such a situation, and it seems to me that if this paper is to be of any use to you it must be of most use when you are wavering."
"But I am no longer wavering. I have decided to throw in my lot with the advanced party."
"When did you make up your mind?"
"To-day."
"Oh, you dined at Curzon Street. And have you arranged about your marriage with dear Dora? No new daughter was ever so welcome as she will be to me. Has the time been fixed?"
He started. "No, not exactly, mother." He had forgotten for the past quarter of an hour all about the quarrel or scene with Dora. He flushed crimson, and then grew dusky white. He seized the balustrade for a moment to steady himself. His mother was walking in front, and could not see the signs of his agitation.
He recovered himself instantly.
She judged by his tone that her question had not been well timed. With the intention of getting away as far as possible from the thought of Dora, or marriage, she said, turning round upon him with a smile as she opened her boudoir door, "By the way, who was that admirable paragon whose panegyric you were pronouncing in the dining-room when I came in?"