ed and done with. Let us never
again allude to it. The question now is--what will you do next? Where
will you live?"

"I do not know. I have got Fanny Mere with me. Mrs. Vimpany is also
anxious to live with me. I am rich, indeed, since I have two faithful
dependants and one friend."

"In such wealth, Iris, you will always be rich. Now listen seriously. I
have a villa in the country. It is far away from London, in the
Scottish Lowlands--quite out of the way--remote even from tourists and
travellers. It is a very lonely place, but there is a pretty house,
with a great garden behind and a stretch of sand and seashore in front.
There one may live completely isolated. I offer you that villa for your
residence. Take it; live in it as long as you please."

"No, no. I must not accept such a gift."

"You must, Iris--you shall. I ask it of you as a proof of friendship,
and nothing more. Only, I fear that you will get tired of the
loneliness."

"No--no," she said. "I cannot get tired of loneliness it is all I
want."

"There is no society at all."

"Society? Society for me?"

"I go to the neighbourhood sometimes for fishing. You will let me call
upon you?"

"Who else has such a right?"

"Then you will accept my offer?"

"I feel that I must. Yes, Hugh; yes, with deepest gratitude."

The next day she went down by the night-mail to Scotland. With her
travelled Mrs. Vimpany and Fanny Mere.

CHAPTER LXIV

THE INVINCIBLES

THE proceedings of Lord Harry after he had sent off that cheque were
most remarkable. If he had invited--actually courted--what followed--he
could not have acted differently.

He left London and crossed over to Dublin.

Arrived there, he went to a small hotel entirely frequented by Irish
Americans and their friends. It was suspected of being the principal
place of resort of the Invincibles. It was known to be a house entirely
given up to the Nationalists. He made no attempt to conceal his name.
He entered the hotel, greeted the landlord cheerfully, saluted the head
waiter, ordered his dinner, and took no notice of the sullen looks with
which he was received or the scowls which followed him about the
coffee-room, where half a dozen men were sitting and talking, for the
most part in whispers.

He slept there that night.

The next day, still openly and as if there was nothing to fear, either
from England or from Ireland, he walked to the station and took his
ticket, paying no attention to w