The pet syllable (a joke upon her name as translated by Thibaut Rossignol) had not been frequent on her father’s lips for the last year or two; be used it only in moments of gaiety or of sadness.  Irene did not wish to speak about her aunt just now, and was glad that the announcement of dinner came almost at once.  They sat through an unusually silent meal, the few words they exchanged having reference to public affairs.  As soon as it was over, Irene asked if she might join her father in the library.

“Yes, come and be smoked,” was his answer.

This mood did not surprise her.  It was the Doctor’s principle to combat anxiety with jests.  He filled and lit one of his largest pipes, and smoked for some minutes before speaking.  Irene, still nervous, let her eyes wander about the book-covered walls; a flush was on her cheeks, and with one of her hands she grasped the other wrist, as if to restrain herself from involuntary movement.

“The nurse came,” she said at length, unable to keep silence longer.

“That’s right.  An excellent woman; I can trust her.”

“Aunt seemed better when I came away.”

“I’m glad.”

Volleys of tobacco were the only sign of the stress Dr. Derwent suffered.  He loathed what seemed to him the sordid tragedy of his sister’s life, and he resented as a monstrous thing his daughter’s involvement in such an affair.  This was the natural man; the scientific observer took another side, urging that life was life and could not be escaped, refine ourselves as we may; also that a sensible girl of mature years would benefit rather than otherwise by being made helpful to a woman caught in the world’s snare.

“Whilst I was there,” pursued Irene, “there came a letter from Mr. Otway.  No, no; not from him; from Mr. Piers Otway.”

She gave a general idea of its contents, and praised its tone.  “I daresay,” threw out her father, almost irritably, “but I shall strongly advise her to have done with all of that name.”

“It’s true they are of the same family,” said Irene, “but that seems a mere accident, when one knows the difference between our friend Mr. Otway and his brothers.”

“Maybe; I shall never like the name.  Pray don’t speak of ’our friend.’  In any case, as you see, there must be an end of that.”

“I should like you to see his letter, father.  Ask aunt to show it you.”

The Doctor smoked fiercely, his brows dark.  Rarely in her lifetime had Irene seen her father wrathful—­save for his outbursts against the evils of the world and the time.  To her he had never spoken an angry word.  The lowering of his features in this moment caused her a painful flutter at the heart; she became mute, and for a minute or two neither spoke.

“By the bye,” said Dr. Derwent suddenly, “it is a most happy thing that your aunt’s money was so strictly tied up.  No one can be advantaged by her death—­except that American hospital.  Her scoundrelly acquaintances are aware of that fact no doubt.”