“He will be glad,” continued Mrs. Agar, “to hear that it was you who helped me. I know he would rather that it had been you than any one.” All this with the horrid meaning, the sly significance, of her kind; for there are women for whom there is absolutely nothing sacred in the whole gamut of human feelings. There are women who will talk of things upon which the lips of even the most depraved men are silent. And with it there was nothing that Dora could take exception to--nothing that she could answer without running the risk of bringing upon herself questions to which she had no reply. “Well,” she said cheerfully, “it is done now, so we can dismiss it from our minds. Of course you know that mother is getting out of hand altogether. I cannot hold her in. Her plans are simply kittenish. She wants to take a flat in town for two months, to take Boulton and one maid, to hire a cook, and to go generally to the bad.” Mrs. Agar's eyes glistened. She liked to hear of other people seeking excitement because she felt more justified in doing so herself. “Well, I think she is very sensible. I am sure you all want a change. I feel I do. It is so depressing here all alone with one's thoughts. Sister Cecilia was just saying the other day that I ought to go away to Brighton or somewhere--that I owed it to Arthur.” “I don't see why you should not pay it to yourself, whoever you owe it to,” said Dora. “This is an age of going away for changes. Life is like old Martin's trousers--so patched up with changes that the original pattern has disappeared.” “Yes, dear,” replied Mrs. Agar, with a vague laugh. In conversation with Dora she invariably felt clumsy and unable to protect herself, like a stout fencer conscious of many vulnerable outlying points. She did not understand this girl, and never knew which was carte and which tierce. “So you are going away?” “I expect so. Mother usually carries through her little schemes, and in his inward soul papa is rather a fast old gentleman. He loves the pavement, and--I don't object to the shops myself.” “Then you will like it?” “Oh yes!” replied Dora, rising to go. “Like Mr. Martin, I am not sure that the old pattern is worth preserving.” “I wish I could go with you,” said Mrs. Agar, holding up her cheek in an absent way for the farewell kiss; “I have not been to town for ages.” “Last week,” amended Dora mentally. “Why not come too?” she said aloud, gathering together stick, basket, and gloves. “There is Arthur,” replied the lady. “I am afraid he will not care to leave home just now, after so great a blow.” “All the more reason why he should go to town for a little and forget--himself.” Mrs. Agar smiled sadly and waited for further persuasion. She had fully made up her mind to go to Brighton, but was anxious first that the whole parish should press her to do so against her will. “It will be very nice,” continued Dora, “to have you to help me to keep my flighty progenitors in order. Now I _must_ go.”