at the end of my strength. I shall run away from the after
consequences."

"What do you mean?"

"I shall accept Mrs. Horisoff's invitation and go to Paris. It is
deserting you, but----"

Dr. Derwent wore a doubtful look; he pondered, and began to pace the
floor.

"We must think about that."

Though her own mind was quite made up, Irene did not see fit to say
more at this juncture. She rose. Her father continued moving hither and
thither, his hands behind his back, seemingly oblivious of her
presence. To him, the trouble seemed only just beginning, and he was
not at all sure what the end would be.

"Jacks will come this evening, I suppose?" he threw out, as Irene
approached the door.

"Perhaps this afternoon."

He looked at her with sympathy, with apprehension. Irene endeavouring
to smile in reply, passed from his view.

Olga had gone out, merely saying that she wished to see a friend, and
that she might not be back to luncheon. She did not return. Father and
daughter were alone together at the meal. Contrary to Irene's
expectation, the Doctor had become almost cheerful; he made one or two
quiet jokes in the old way, of course on any subject but that which
filled their minds, and his behaviour was marked with an unusual
gentleness. Irene was so moved by grateful feeling, that now and then
she could not trust her voice.

"Let me remind you," he said, observing her lack of appetite, "that an
ill-nourished brain can't be depended upon for sanity of argument."

"It aches a little," she replied quietly.

"I was afraid so. What if you rest to-day, and let me postpone for you
that interview----?"

The suggestion was dreadful; she put it quickly aside. She hoped with
all her strength that Arnold Jacks would have received the letter
already, and that he would come to see her this afternoon. To pass
another night with her suspense would be a strain scarce endurable.

Fog still hung about the streets, shifting, changing its density, but
never allowing a glimpse of sky. Alone in the drawing-room Irene longed
for the end of so-called day, that she might shut out that
spirit-crushing blotch of bare trees and ugly houses. She thought of a
sudden, how much harder we make life than it need be, by dwelling amid
scenes that disgust, in air that lowers vitality. There fell on her a
mood of marvelling at the aims and the satisfactions of mankind. This
hideous oblong, known as Bryanston Square--how did it come to seem a
de