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Updated: September 10, 2025
Glynde had then, like a diminutive tigress, stood up boldly before her awesome lord and master, saying such things to him that the remembrance of them made her catch her breath even now. From that time forth the Rector was allowed to hold forth on symptoms to his heart's content, to take down from his library shelf a stout misguided book of medical short-cuts to the grave, but nothing more.
She saw a sudden wavering gleam in his eyes which in another man she would have set down to fear. "Miss Dora Glynde," he repeated; and the expression of his face was so serene again that the look which had passed away from it began already to present itself to her memory as a conception of her own brain.
He stood squarely in front of her with a persistence that forced her to turn shiftily away with a pretence of looking at the clock. "This is a bad business," he said. "That boy ought never to have gone out there." Mrs. Agar had her handkerchief ready and made use of it, with as much effect upon Mr. Glynde as might have been produced upon a granite sphinx.
Glynde had a pink patch on each cheek precisely on the spot whore two such patches had appeared years ago when the doctor spoke so strongly. Those patches were maternal, and only appeared when Dora's affairs, spiritual or temporal, were concerned. "I don't know," put in Dora again, "but I have a sort of lurking conviction that Jem will have to wear a turban and red morocco boots."
"The girl is happy enough," he repeated, seeking contradiction. There are times when an autocrat would very much like to be argued with. "She is always lively and gay," he continued defiantly. "Too gay," Mrs. Glynde whispered to the scissors, with a flash of the only wisdom which Heaven gives away, and it is not given to all mothers.
With a patient sigh Mrs. Glynde turned away and went to the window, where she stood with her back to him. Even to the duller masculine mind the wonder sometimes presents itself that our women-folk take us so patiently as we are. If Mrs. The Reverend Thomas sat staring into the fire a luxury which he allowed himself all through the year with troubled eyes.
These broad acres, the stately forests, the grand old house, raised Arthur Agar above such considerations, indeed above most considerations. And Mr. Glynde made up his mind to put it very strongly to Dora. The name of the slough was Despond. When Dora returned to Stagholme a fortnight later she was relieved to find that Arthur had not yet come down from Cambridge.
There was a little pause, during which they both watched the self-satisfied throng moving in and out, here and there, full of a restless desire to be observed. It was Seymour Michael who spoke first. True to his mixed blood, he sought to make himself safe. "Excuse me," he said, "but Edith Mazerod did not mention your name; may I ask it?" "Dora Glynde!" She saw him start.
"What is it, dear?" she gasped. "There," was the answer; "read that. 'Disaster in Northern India. Not there higher up!" In her eagerness Mrs. Glynde had plunged headlong into the consumption of Wesleyan missionaries in the Sandwich Islands. Then she had to find her glasses, and considerable delay was incurred by putting them on upside down.
"And," added Dora cheerfully, "he will come home covered with glory and medals, with a weakness for strong pickles and hot language I mean hot pickles and strong language." "But," said Mrs. Glynde rather breathlessly, "are they never stationed in England?" "No never," replied her husband snappishly. Mrs.
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