that; ostentatiously quiet,
theatrically simple, worn with the object of looking unlike other
people. In one last word, was this mass of contradictions generally
popular, in the time when it was a living creature? Yes--among the men.
No--not invariably. The man of all others who ought to have been
fondest of her was the man who behaved cruelly to Iris--her own father.
And, when the poor creature married (if she did marry), how many of you
attended the wedding? Not one of us! And when she died, how many of you
were sorry for her? All of us! What? no difference of opinion in that
one particular? On the contrary, perfect concord, thank God.

Let the years roll back, and let Iris speak for herself, at the
memorable time when she was in the prime of her life, and when a stormy
career was before her.

IV

BEING Miss Henley's godfather, Sir Giles was a privileged person. He
laid his hairy hands on her shoulders, and kissed her on either cheek.
After that prefatory act of endearment, he made his inquiries. What
extraordinary combination of events had led Iris to leave London, and
had brought her to visit him in his banking-house at Ardoon?

"I wanted to get away from home," she answered; "and having nobody to
go to but my godfather, I thought I should like to see You."

"Alone!" cried Sir Giles.

"No--with my maid to keep me company."

"Only your maid, Iris? Surely you have acquaintances among young ladies
like yourself?"

"Acquaintances--yes. No friends."

"Does your father approve of what you have done?"

"Will you grant me a favour, godpapa?"

"Yes--if I can."

"Don't insist on my answering your last question."

The faint colour that had risen in her face, when she entered the room,
left it. At the same time, the expression of her mouth altered. The
lips closed firmly; revealing that strongest of all resolutions which
is founded on a keen sense of wrong. She looked older than her age:
what she might be ten years hence, she was now. Sir Giles understood
her. He got up, and took a turn in the room. An old habit, of which he
had cured himself with infinite difficulty when he was made a Knight,
showed itself again. He put his hands in his pockets.

"You and your father have had another quarrel," he said, stopping
opposite Iris.

"I don't deny it," she replied.

"Who is to blame?"

She smiled bitterly. "The woman is always to blame."

"Did your father tell you that?"

"My father reminded me that I was