Just change places with her for a minute or so--and
you'll understand what she has had to go through. Find yourself, for
instance, in Ireland, without the means to take you back to England.
Add to that, a husband who sends you away to make money for him at the
theatre, and a manager (not an Irishman, thank God!) who refuses to
engage you--after your acting has filled his dirty pockets in past
days--because your beauty has faded with time. Doesn't your bright
imagination see it all now? My old friend Arabella, ready and anxious
to serve me--and a sinking at this poor fellow's heart when he knew, if
he once lost the trace of you, he might lose it for ever--there's the
situation, as they call it on the stage. I wish I could say for myself
what I may say for Mrs. Vimpany. It's such a pleasure to a clever woman
to engage in a little deceit--we can't blame her, can we?"
Iris protested gently against a code of morality which included the
right of deceit among the privileges of the sex. Lord Harry slipped
through her fingers with the admirable Irish readiness; he agreed with
Miss Henley that he was entirely wrong.
"And don't spare me while you're about it," he suggested. "Lay all the
blame of that shameful stratagem on my shoulders.
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