The Reverend Thomas sat staring into the fire--a luxury which he allowed himself all through the year--with troubled eyes. There was a fence in front of him, but he could not bring himself up to it. In his mistaken contempt for women he had never taken his wife fully into his confidence in those things--great or small, according to the capacity of the producing machine--which are essentially a personal property--namely his thoughts. All else he told her openly and at once, as behoved an English gentleman. Should he tell all that he had hoped and thought and rethought respecting Jem Agar and Dora? Should he; should he not? And the loving little woman stood there almost daring to break the great silence herself; but not quite. Strong as was her mother's heart, the habit of submission was stronger. She longed, she yearned to hear the deeper, graver tone of voice which had been used once or twice towards her--once or twice in moments of unusual confidence. The Reverend Thomas Glynde was silent, and the voice that they both heard was Dora's, singing as she came downstairs towards them. It was only a matter of moments, and when we have no more than that wherein to act we usually take the wrong turning. Mrs. Glynde turned and gave one imploring look towards her husband. At the same instant the door opened and Dora entered, singing as she came. “What is the matter?” she exclaimed. “You both look depressed. Stocks down, or something else has gone up? I know! Papa has been made a bishop!” With a cheery laugh she went to the table and took up the newspaper. CHAPTER XII BAD NEWS Sa manière de souffrir est le témoignage qu'une âme porte sur elle-même. There was a horrid throbbing silence while Dora read, and her parents calculated the seconds which would necessarily elapse before she reached the bottom line. Such moments as these are scored up as years in the span of life. Mrs. Glynde did not know what she was doing. It happened that she was trying to rub away a flaw in the window-glass with her pocket hand-kerchief--a flaw which must have been an old friend, as such things are in quiet lives. At this occupation she found herself when her heart began to beat again. “I suppose,” said Dora in a terribly calm voice, “that the _Times_ never makes a mistake--I mean they never publish anything unless they are quite sure?” Then the English gentleman of parts who ever and anon peeped out through the veneer of the parson asserted himself--the English gentleman whose sense of fair play and honour told him that it is better to strike at once a blow that must be struck than to keep the victim waiting. “Such is their reputation,” answered Dora's father. Mrs. Glynde turned with that pathetic yearning movement of a punished dog which waits to be called. But Dora had some of her father's sternness, her father's good British reserve, and she never called.