He mischievously proposed submitting to her the question in
dispute between Iris and himself.
"It is a very simple matter," he said to Mrs. Vimpany. "Miss Henley's
father is anxious that she should return to him, after an estrangement
between them which is happily at an end. Do you think she ought to
allow any accidental engagements to prevent her from going home at
once? If she requests your indulgence, under the circumstances, has she
any reason to anticipate a refusal?"
Mrs. Vimpany's expressive eyes looked up, with saintly resignation, at
the dirty ceiling--and asked in dumb show what she had done to deserve
the injury implied by a doubt.
"Mr. Mountjoy," she said sternly, "you insult me by asking the
question."--"Dear Miss Henley," she continued, turning to Iris, _"you_
will do me justice, I am sure. Am I capable of allowing my own feelings
to stand in the way, when your filial duty is concerned? Leave me, my
sweet friend. Go! I entreat you, go home!"
She retired up the stage--no, no; she withdrew to the other end of the
room--and burst into the most becoming of all human tears, theatrical
tears. Impulsive Iris hastened to comfort the personification of
self-sacrifice, the model of all that was most unselfish in female
submission.
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