This theory was not quite new to the Rector. He had given up arguing about it, and usually took refuge in flight. He did so on this occasion. But as he walked home across the park, smoking a cigarette, he reflected that to the owner of Stagholme such a small matter as a college career was, after all, of no importance. 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. CHAPTER XXI ALONE 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. It is a strange thing that in the spring-time those who are happy--_pro tempore_, of course, we know all that--are happier, while those who carry something with them find the burden heavier. Stagholme in the spring came as a sort of shock to Dora. There were certain adjuncts to the growth of things which gave her actual pain. After dinner, the first night, she walked across the garden to the beechwood, but before long she came back again. There is a scent in beech forests in the spring which is like no other scent on earth, and Dora found that she could not stand it. Her father and mother were sitting in the drawing-room with open windows, for it was a warm May that year. She came in through the falling curtains, and something warned her to keep her face averted from the furtive glance of her mother's eyes. She had learnt something of the world during her brief season in town, and one of the lessons had been that the world sees more than is often credited to it. “The worst,” she said cheerfully, “of a season in town is that it makes one feel aged and experienced. Middle age came upon me suddenly, just now, in the garden.” Mr. Glynde was looking at her almost critically over his newspaper. “How old are you?” he asked curtly. “Twenty-five.” In some indefinite way the question jarred horribly. Dora was conscious of a faint doubt in the infallibility of her father's judgment. She knew that in a worldly sense he was more experienced, more thoughtful, cleverer than her mother, but in some ways she inclined towards the maternal opinion on questions connected with herself. At this moment Mrs. Glynde was called from the room, and went reluctantly, feeling that the time was unpropitious. Mr. Glynde's life had been eminently uneventful. Prosperous, happy in a half-hearted, almost negative, way, somewhat selfish, he had never known hardship, had never faced adversity. It is such men as this who love what they call a serious talk, summoning the subject thereof with exaggerated gravity to a study, making a point of the _mise en scène_, and finally saying nothing that could not have been spoken in course of ordinary conversation.