Without making any reply he took out his matchbox. His hand trembled a
little; he failed at the first attempt to strike a light.

"And doctors sometimes make mistakes," Iris went on.

He was still silent. At the second attempt, he succeeded with the
match, and lit his cigar.

"Suppose Mr. Vimpany made a mistake," she persisted. "In the case of
this stranger, it might lead to deplorable results."

Lord Harry lost his temper, and with it his colour.

"What the devil do you mean?" he cried.

"I might ask, in my turn," she said, "what have I done to provoke an
outbreak of temper? I only made a remark."

At that critical moment, Fanny Mere entered the room with a telegram in
her hand.

"For you, my lady."

Iris opened the telegram. The message was signed by Mrs. Vimpany, and
was expressed in these words: "You may feel it your duty to go to your
father. He is dangerously ill."

Lord Harry saw a sudden change in his wife's face that roused his
guilty suspicions. "Is it anything about me?" he asked.

Iris handed the telegram to him in silence. Having looked at it, he
desired to hear what her wishes were.

"The telegram expresses my wishes," she said. "Have you any objection
to my leaving you?"

"None whatever," he answered eagerly. "Go, by all means."

If it had still been possible for her to hesitate, that reply would
have put an end to all further doubt. She turned away to leave the
room. He followed her to the door.

"I hope you don't think there is any want of sympathy on my part," he
said. "You are quite right to go to your father. That was all I meant."
He was agitated, honestly agitated, while he spoke. Iris saw it, and
felt it gratefully. She was on the point of making a last appeal to his
confidence, when he opened the door for her. "Don't let me detain you,"
he said. His voice faltered; he suddenly turned aside before she could
look at him.

Fanny was waiting in the hall, eager to see the telegram. She read it
twice and reflected for a moment. "How often do things fit themselves
to one's wishes in this convenient way?" she asked herself. "It's
lucky," she privately decided--"almost too lucky. Let me pack up your
things," she continued, addressing her mistress, "while I have some
time to myself. Mr. Oxbye is asleep."

As the day wore on, the noble influences in the nature of Iris, failing
fast, yet still at rare intervals struggling to assert themselves,
inspired her with the resolution to make a