im.

Not even at the time of the honeymoon had the Irish lord been a more
irresistibly agreeable man than he was on that memorable morning. His
apologies for having failed to return at the right time were little
masterpieces of grace and gaiety. The next best thing to having been
present, at the theatrical performance of the previous night, was to
hear his satirical summary of the story of the play, contrasting
delightfully with his critical approval of the fine art of the actors.
The time had been when Iris would have resented such merciless trifling
with serious interests as this. In these earlier and better days, she
would have reminded him affectionately of her claim to be received into
his confidence--she would have tried all that tact and gentleness and
patience could do to win his confession of the ascendency exercised
over him by his vile friend--and she would have used the utmost
influence of her love and her resolution to disunite the fatal
fellowship which was leading him to his ruin.

But Iris Henley was Lady Harry now.

She was sinking--as Mrs. Vimpany had feared, as Mountjoy had
foreseen--lower and lower on the descent to her husband's level. With a
false appearance of interest in what he was saying she waited for her
chance of matching him with his own weapons of audacious deceit. He
ignorantly offered her the opportunity--setting the same snare to catch
his wife, which she herself had it in contemplation to use for
entrapping her husband into a confession of the truth.

"Ah, well--I have said more than enough of my last night's amusement,"
he confessed. "It's your turn now, my dear. Have you had a look at the
poor fellow whom the doctor is going to cure?" he asked abruptly; eager
to discover whether she had noticed the likeness between Oxbye and
himself.

Her eyes rested on him attentively. "I have not yet seen the person you
allude to," she answered. "Is Mr. Vimpany hopeful of his recovery?"

He took out his case, and busied himself in choosing a cigar. In the
course of his adventurous life, he had gained some knowledge of the
effect of his own impetuous temper on others, and of difficulties which
he had experienced when circumstances rendered it necessary to keep his
face in a state of discipline.

"Oh, there's no reason for anxiety!" he said, with an over-acted
interest in examining his cigar. "Mr. Oxbye is in good hands."

"People do sometimes sink under an illness," she quietly remarked.