n this aspect of his character, he is a dangerous man--and he
may be (forgive me!) a bad husband. It is a thankless task to warn you
to any good purpose. A wife--and a loving wife more than another--feels
the deteriorating influence of a husband who is not worthy of her. His
ways of thinking are apt to become, little by little, her ways of
thinking. She makes allowances for him, which he does not deserve; her
sense of right and wrong becomes confused; and before she is aware of
it herself, she has sunk to his level. Are you angry with me?"

"How can I be angry with you? Perhaps you are right."

"Do you really mean that?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then, for God's sake, reconsider your decision! Let me go to your
father."

"Mere waste of time," Iris answered. "Nothing that you can say will
have the least effect on him."

"At any rate," Mountjoy persisted, "I mean to try."

Had he touched her? She smiled--how bitterly Hugh failed to perceive.

"Shall I tell you what happened to me when I went home to-day?" she
said. "I found my maid waiting in the hall--with everything that
belongs to me, packed up for my departure. The girl explained that she
had been forced to obey my father's positive orders. I knew what that
meant--I had to leave the house, and find a place to live in."

"Not by yourself, Iris?"

"No--with my maid. She is a strange creature; if she feels sympathy,
she never expresses it. 'I am your grateful servant, Miss. Where you
go, I go.' That was all she said; I was not disappointed--I am getting
used to Fanny Mere already. Mine is a lonely lot--isn't it? I have
acquaintances among the few ladies who sometimes visit at my father's
house, but no friends. My mother's family, as I have always been told,
cast her off when she married a man in trade, with a doubtful
reputation. I don't even know where my relations live. Isn't Lord Harry
good enough for me, as I am now? When I look at my prospects, is it
wonderful if I talk like a desperate woman? There is but one
encouraging circumstance that I can see. This misplaced love of mine
that everybody condemns has, oddly enough, a virtue that everybody must
admire. It offers a refuge to a woman who is alone in the world."

Mountjoy denied indignantly that she was alone in the world.

"Is there any protection that a man can offer to a woman," he asked,
"which I am not ready and eager to offer to You? Oh, Iris, what have I
done to deserve that you should speak of yourself as