“Could I see you for half an hour before lunch, father?”

He looked into the speaker’s face, surprised at something unusual in her tone, and nodded without smiling.

“When you like.”

She stood at the window of the drawing-room, looking over the enclosure in the square, the dreary so-called garden, with its gaunt leafless trees that dripped and oozed.  Opposite was the long facade of characterless houses, like to that in which she lived; the steps, the door-columns, the tall narrow windows; above them, murky vapour.

She moved towards the door, hesitated, looked about her with unconsciously appealing eyes.  She moved forward again, and on to her purpose.

“Well?” said the Doctor, who stood before a table covered with scientific apparatus.  “Is it about Olga?”

“No, dear father.  It’s about Irene.”

He smiled; his face softened to tenderness.

“And what about Mam’zelle Wren?  It’s hard on Wren, all this worry at such a time.”

“If it didn’t sound so selfish, I should say it had all happened for my good.  I suppose we can’t help seeing the world from our own little point of view.”

“What follows on this philosophy?”

“Something you won’t like to hear, I know; but I beg you to be patient with me.  When were you not?  I never had such need of your patience and forbearance as now—­Father, I cannot marry Arnold Jacks.  And I have told him that I can’t.”

The Doctor very quietly laid down a microscopic slide.  His forehead grew wrinkled; his lips came sharply together; he gazed for a moment at an open volume on a high desk at his side, then said composedly: 

“This is your affair, Irene.  All I can do is to advise you to be sure of your own mind.”

“I am sure of it—­very sure of it!”

Her voice trembled a little; her hand, resting upon the table, much more.

“You say you have told Jacks?”

“I posted a letter to him this morning.”

“With the first announcement of your change of mind?—­How do you suppose he will reply?”

“I can’t feel sure.”

There was silence.  The Doctor took up a piece of paper, and began folding and re-folding it, the while he meditated.

“You know, of course,” he said at length, “what the world thinks of this sort of behaviour?”

“I know what the world is likely to say about it.  Unfortunately, the world seldom thinks at all.”

“Granted.  And we may also assume that no explanation offered by you or Jacks will affect the natural course of gossip.  Still, you would wish to justify yourself in the eyes of your friends.”

“What I wish before all, of course, is to save Mr. Jacks from any risk of blame.  It must be understood that I, and I alone, am responsible for what happens.”

“Stick to your philosophy,” said her father.  “Recognise the fact that you cannot save him from gossip and scandal—­that people will credit as much or as little as they like of any explanation put forth.  Moreover, bear in mind that this action of yours is defined by a vulgar word, which commonly injures the man more than the woman.  In the world’s view, it is worse to be made ridiculous than to act cruelly.”