t into
legal hands. Your brother is a man of the world, and much more than
that; he will not, cannot, refuse to believe you, and his practical aid
will comfort you in every way. Do not try to hide the thing even from
your daughter; she is of an age to share your suffering, and to
alleviate it by her affection. Believe me, silence is mistaken
delicacy. You are innocent; you are horribly wronged; have the courage
of a just cause. See Dr. Derwent at once; I implore you to do so, for
your own sake, and for that of all your true friends."

At the end, Irene drew a deep breath.

"He, certainly, is one of them," she said.

"Of my true friends? Indeed, he is."

Again they were interrupted. Olga announced the arrival of the nurse
sent by Dr. Derwent to tend the invalid. Thereupon Irene took leave of
her aunt, promising to come again on the morrow, and went downstairs,
where she exchanged a few words with her cousin. They spoke of Piers
Otway's letter.

"Pleasant for us, isn't it?" said Olga, with a dreary smile. "Picture
us entertaining friends who call!"

Irene embraced her gently, bade her be hopeful, and said good-bye.

At home again, she remembered that she had an engagement to dine out
this evening, but the thought was insufferable. Eustace, who was to
have accompanied her, must go alone. Having given the necessary orders,
she went to her room, meaning to sit there until dinner. But she grew
restless and impatient; when the first bell rang, she made a hurried
change of dress, and descended to the drawing-room. An evening
newspaper failed to hold her attention; with nervous movements, she
walked hither and thither. It was a great relief to her when the door
opened and her father came in.

Contrary to his custom, the Doctor had not dressed. He bore a wearied
countenance, but at the sight of Irene tried to smooth away the lines
of disgust.

"It was all I could do to get here by dinner-time. Excuse me, Mam'zelle
Wren; they're the clothes of an honest working-man."

The pet syllable (a joke upon her name as translated by Thibaut
Rossignol) had not been frequent on her father's lips for the last year
or two; he used it only in moments of gaiety or of sadness. Irene did
not wish to speak about her aunt just now, and was glad that the
announcement of dinner came almost at once. They sat through an
unusually silent meal, the few words they exchanged having reference to
public affairs. As soon as it was over, Irene asked