“How?” asked Dyce, with a quick, startled look.

“You have said more than once that a man and woman who were really friends should be just as men are with each other—­plain-spoken and straightforward and—­and no nonsense.”

“That’s my principle.  I won’t have any woman for a friend on other terms.”

“Then—­here’s what I want to say.  I’m your friend call me Jack or Harry, if you like—­and I see a way in which I can be of use to you.  It happens that I have rather more money than I want for my own use.  I want to lend you some—­until your difficulties are over—­ just as one man would to another—­”

Her speech had become so palpitant that she was stopped by want of breath; a rosy shamefacedness subdued her; trying to brave it out, she achieved only an unconscious archness of eye and lip which made her for the moment oddly, unfamiliarly attractive.  Dyce could not take his eyes from her; he experienced a singular emotion.

“That’s uncommonly good of you, Iris,” he said, with all the directness at his command.  “You see, I call you by your name, just to show that I take our friendship seriously.  If I could borrow from anyone I would from you.  But I don’t like the idea.  You’re a good fellow—­” he laughed—­“and I thank you heartily.”

Iris winced at the “good fellow.”

“Why can’t you consent to borrow?” she asked, in a note of persistence.  “Would you refuse if Lady Ogram made such a suggestion?”

“Oh, Lady Ogram!  That would depend entirely—­”

“But you must have money from somewhere,” Iris urged, her manner becoming practical.  “I’m not rich enough to lend very much, but I could help you over a year, perhaps.  Wouldn’t you rather go back to Rivenoak with a feeling of complete independence?—­I see what it is.  You don’t really mean what you say; you’re ashamed to be indebted to a woman.  Yes, I can see it in your face.”

“Look at the thing impartially,” said Dyce, fidgetting in his chair.  “How can I be sure that I should ever be able to pay you back?  In money matters there is just that difference a man can go to work and earn; a woman generally can’t do anything of the kind.  That’s why it seems unjust to take a woman’s money; that’s the root of all our delicacy in the matter.  Don’t trouble about my affairs; I shall pull through the difficult time.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Iris, “with somebody else’s help.  And why should it be somebody else?  I’m not in such a position that I should be ruined if I lost a few hundred pounds.  I have money I can do what I like with.  If I want to have the pleasure of helping you, why should you refuse me?  You know very well—­at least, I hope you do—­that I should never have hinted at such a thing if we had been just ordinary acquaintances.  We’re trying to be more sensible than everyday people.  And just when there comes a good chance of putting our views into practice, you draw back, you make conventional excuses.  I don’t like that!  It makes me feel doubtful about your sincerity—­Be angry, if you like.  I feel inclined to be angry too, and I’ve the better right!”