“Irene’s late,” said Eustace presently, glancing at the clock.

The Doctor looked at him with an odd smile.

“She left Victoria ten minutes ago,” he said, “by the Calais-boat express.”

Eustace and Olga stared, exclaimed.

“She suddenly made up her mind to accept an invitation from Mrs. Borisoff.”

“But—­what an extraordinary thing!” pealed Eustace, who was always greatly disturbed by anything out of routine.  “She didn’t speak of it yesterday!”

Olga gazed at the Doctor.  Her wan face had a dawn of brightness.

“How long is she likely to stay, uncle?”

“I haven’t the least idea.”

“Well, she can’t stay long,” Eustace exclaimed.  “Ah!  I have it!  Don’t you see, Olga?  It means Parisian dresses and hats!”

Dr. Derwent exploded in laughter.

“Acute young man!  Now the ordinary male might have lost himself for a day in wild conjectures.  This points to the woolsack, Olga!”

She laughed for the first time in many days, and her appetite for breakfast was at once improved.

In his heart, Dr. Derwent did not grieve over the singular events of yesterday and this morning.  He had no fault to find with Arnold Jacks, and could cheerfully accept him as a son-in-law; but it was easy to imagine a husband more suitable for such a girl as Irene.  Moreover, he had suspected, since the engagement, that she had not thoroughly known her own mind.  But he was far from anticipating such original and decisive action on the girl’s part.  The thing being done, he could secretly admire it, and the flight to Paris relieved his mind from a prospect of domestic confusion.  Just for a moment he questioned himself as to Irene’s security, but only to recognise how firm was his confidence in her.

Socially, the position was awkward.  He had a letter from Jacks, a sensible and calmly worded letter, saying that Irene was overwrought by recent agitations, that she had spoken of putting an end to their engagement, but that doubtless a few days would see all right again.  Arnold must now be apprised of what had happened, and, as all consideration was due to him, the Doctor despatched a telegram asking him to call as soon as he could.  This brought Jacks to Bryanston Square at midday, and there was a conversation in the library.  Arnold spoke his mind; with civility, but in unmistakable terms; he accused the Doctor of remissness.  “Paternal authority,” it seemed to him, should have sufficed to prevent what threatened nothing less than a scandal.  Irene’s father could not share this view; the girl was turned three-and-twenty; there could be no question of dictating to her, and as for expostulation, it had been honestly tried.

“You are aware, I hope,” said Jacks stiffly, “that Mrs. Borisoff has not quite an unclouded reputation?”

“I know no harm against her.”

“She is as good as parted from her husband, and leads a very dubious wandering life.”