he had taken.  Hitherto he had been often reminded that, socially speaking, he might have made a better marriage; he had felt that Irene conquered somewhat against his will, and that he wooed her without quite meaning to do so.  On the cliffs and the sands at Cromer, these indecisions vanished.  The girl had never looked to such advantage; he had never been so often apprised of the general admiration she excited.  Beyond doubt, she would do him credit—­in Arnold’s view the first qualification in a wife.  She was really very intelligent, could hold her own in any company, and with experience might become a positively brilliant woman.

For caresses, for endearments, the time was not yet; that kind of thing, among self-respecting people of a certain class, came only with the honeymoon.  Yet Arnold never for a moment doubted that the girl was very fond of him.  Of course it was for his sake that she had refused Trafford Romaine—­a most illuminating incident.  That she was proud of him, went without saying.  He noted with satisfaction how thoroughly she had embraced his political views, what a charming Imperialist she had become.  In short, everything promised admirably.  At moments, Arnold felt the burning of a lover’s impatience.

They parted.  The Derwents returned to London; Arnold set off to pay a hasty visit or two in the North.  The wedding was to take place a couple of months hence, and the pair would spend their Christmas in Egypt.

A few days after her arrival in Bryanston Square, Irene went to see the Hannafords.  She found her aunt in a deplorable state, unable to converse, looking as if on the verge of a serious illness.  Olga behaved strangely, like one in harassing trouble of which she might not speak.  It was a painful visit, and on her return home Irene talked of it to her father.

“Something wretched is going on of which we don’t know,” she declared.  “Anyone could see it.  Olga is keeping some miserable secret, and her mother looks as if she were being driven mad.”

“That ruffian, I suppose,” said the Doctor.  “What can he be doing?”

The next day he saw his sister.  He came home with a gloomy countenance, and called Irene into his study.

“You were right.  Something very bad indeed is going on, so bad that I hardly like to speak to you about it.  But secrecy is impossible; we must use our common sense—­Hannaford is bringing a suit for divorce.”

Irene was so astonished that she merely gazed at her father, waiting his explanation.  Under her eyes Dr. Derwent suffered an increase of embarrassment, which tended to relieve itself in anger.

“It will kill her,” he exclaimed, with a nervous gesture.  “And then, if justice were done, that scoundrel would be hanged!”

“You mean her husband?”

“Yes.  Though I’m not sure that there isn’t another who deserves the name.  She wants to see you, Irene, and I think you must go at once.  She says she has things to tell you that will make her mind easier.  I’m going to send a nurse to be with her:  she mustn’t be left alone.  It’s lucky I went to-day.  I won’t answer for what may happen in four-and-twenty hours.  Olga isn’t much use, you know, though she’s doing what she can.”