“Strange!  All this new light came after your engagement?”

Irene bent her head again, for her cheeks were warm.  In a flash of intellect, she wondered that a man so deep in the science of life should be so at a loss before elementary facts of emotional experience.  She could only answer by saying nothing.

Dr. Derwent murmured his next words.

“I, too, have a share in the blame of all this.”

“You, father?”

“I knew the man better than you did or could.  I shirked a difficult duty.  But one reason why I did so, was that I felt in doubt as to your mind.  The fact that you were my daughter did not alter the fact that you were a woman, and I could not have any assurance that I understood you.  If there had been a question of his life, his intellectual powers, his views—­I would have said freely just what I thought.  But there was no need; no objection rose on that score; you saw the man, from that point of view, much as I did—­only with a little more sympathy.  In other respects, I trusted to what we call women’s instinct, women’s perceptiveness.  To me, he did not seem your natural mate; but then I saw with man’s eyes; I was afraid of meddling obtusely.”

“Don’t reproach yourself, father.  The knowledge I have gained could only have come to me in one way.”

“Of course he will turn to me, in appeal against you.”

“If so, it will be one more proof how rightly I am acting.”

The Doctor smiled, all but laughed.

“Considering how very decent a fellow he is, your mood seems severe, Irene.  Well, you have made up your mind.  It’s an affair of no small gravity, and we must get through it as best we can.  I have no doubt whatever it’s worse for you than for anyone else concerned.”

“It is so bad for me, father, that, when I have gone through it, I shall be at the end of my strength.  I shall run away from the after consequences.”

“What do you mean?”

“I shall accept Mrs. Horisoff’s invitation and go to Paris.  It is deserting you, but——­”

Dr. Derwent wore a doubtful look; he pondered, and began to pace the floor.

“We must think about that.”

Though her own mind was quite made up, Irene did not see fit to say more at this juncture.  She rose.  Her father continued moving hither and thither, his hands behind his back, seemingly oblivious of her presence.  To him, the trouble seemed only just beginning, and he was not at all sure what the end would be.

“Jacks will come this evening, I suppose?” he threw out, as Irene approached the door.

“Perhaps this afternoon.”

He looked at her with sympathy, with apprehension.  Irene endeavouring to smile in reply, passed from his view.

Olga had gone out, merely saying that she wished to see a friend, and that she might not be back to luncheon.  She did not return.  Father and daughter were alone together at the meal.  Contrary to Irene’s expectation, the Doctor had become almost cheerful; he made one or two quiet jokes in the old way, of course on any subject but that which filled their minds, and his behaviour was marked with an unusual gentleness.  Irene was so moved by grateful feeling, that now and then she could not trust her voice.