“It’s a little hard, isn’t it, that Olga would have nothing?”

“In one way, yes.  But I’m not sure she isn’t safer so.”  Again there fell silence.

Again Irene’s eyes wandered, and her hands moved nervously.

“There is one thing we must speak of,” she said at length “If the case goes on, Arnold will of course hear of it.”

Dr. Derwent looked keenly at her before replying.

“He knows already.”

“He knows?  How?”

“By common talk in some house he frequents.  Agreeable!  I saw him this afternoon; he took me aside and spoke of this.  It is his belief that Hannaford himself has set the news going.”

Irene seemed about to rise.  She sat straight, every nerve tense, her face glowing with indignation.

“What an infamy!”

“Just so.  It’s the kind of thing we’re getting mixed up with.”

“How did Arnold speak to you?  In what tone?”

“As any decent man would—­I can’t describe it otherwise.  He said that of course it didn’t concern him, except in so far as it was likely to annoy our family.  He wanted to know whether you had heard, and—­naturally enough—­was vexed that you couldn’t be kept out of it.  He’s a man of the world, and knows that, nowadays, a scandal such as this matters very little.  Our name will come into it, I fear, but it’s all forgotten in a week or two.”

They sat still and brooded for a long time.  Irene seemed on the point of speaking once or twice, but checked herself.  When at length her father’s face relaxed into a smile, she rose, said she was weary, and stepped forward to say good-night.

“We’ll have no more of this subject, unless compelled,” said the Doctor.  “It’s worse that vivisection.”

And he settled to a book—­or seemed to do so.

CHAPTER XXV

Irene passed a restless night.  The snatches of unrefreshing sleep which she obtained as the hours dragged towards morning were crowded with tumultuous dreams; she seemed to be at strife with all manner of people, now defending herself vehemently against some formless accusation, now arraigning others with a violence strange to her nature.  Worst of all, she was at odds with her father, about she knew not what; she saw his kind face turn cold and hard in reply to a passionate exclamation with which she had assailed him.  The wan glimmer of a misty October dawn was very welcome after this pictured darkness.  Yet it brought reflections that did not tend to soothe her mind.

Several letters for her lay on the breakfast-table; among them, one from Arnold Jacks, which she opened hurriedly.  It proved to be a mere note, saying that at last he had found a house which seemed in every respect suitable, and he wished Irene to go over it with him as soon as possible; he would call for her at three o’clock.  “Remember,” he added, “you dine with us.  We are by ourselves.”