“And,” continued Dora, with an unpleasant calmness of manner, “I must ask you to explain. What did the gossips say, and why should you be sorry to have to believe it?” Mrs. Agar's reluctance was not quite genuine nor was it well enough simulated to deceive Dora. “Well, dear,” she said, “if you insist, they said that there had been something between you and Jem--long, long ago, of course, before he went out to India.” Dora shrugged her shoulders. “They are welcome to say what they like.” Mrs. Agar was silent, awaiting a second question. “And why should you be sorry to believe that?” inquired the girl. “I--I hardly like to tell you,” said Mrs. Agar, in a low voice. Dora waited in silence, without appearing to heed Mrs. Agar's reluctance. “I am afraid, dear,” went on the elder lady, when she saw that there was no chance of assistance, “that we have been all sadly mistaken in Jem. He was not--all that we thought him.” “In what way?” asked Dora. She had turned quite white, and her lips were suddenly dry and parched. She held her parasol a little lower, so that Mrs. Agar could not see her face. She was sure enough of her voice. She had had practice in that. “In what way was Jem not all that we thought him?” she repeated evenly, like a lesson learnt by heart. Mrs. Agar stammered. She tried to blush, but she could not manage that. “I cannot very well give you details. Perhaps, when you are older. You know, dear, in India people are not very particular. They have peculiar ideas, I mean, of morals--different from ours. And perhaps he saw no harm in it.” “In what?” inquired Dora gravely. “Well, in the life they lead out there. It appears that there was some unfortunate attachment. I think she was married or something like that.” “Who told you this?” asked Dora, in a voice like a threat. “A man told Arthur at Cambridge--one of poor Jem's fellow-officers. The man who brought home the diary and things.” Having once begun Mrs. Agar found herself obliged to go on. She had not time to pause and reflect that she was now staking everything upon the possibility of Jem's death subsequent to the disaster in which he was supposed to have perished. Dora did not believe one word of this story, although she was quite without proof to the contrary. Jem's letters had not been frequent, nor had they been remarkable for minuteness of detail respecting his own life. Mrs. Agar had done her best to put a stop to this correspondence altogether, and had succeeded in bringing about a subtle reserve on both sides. She had persistently told Jem that Dora was evidently attached to Arthur, and that their marriage was only the question of a few years. Of this Jem had never found any confirmatory hint in Dora's letters, and from some mistaken sense of chivalry refrained from writing to ask her point-blank if it were true. “And why,” said Dora, “do you tell me this? In case what the gossips said might be true?” “Ye-es, dear, perhaps it was that.”