Vimpany's farewell words had produced a strong impression on her.
There had been moments of doubt and gloom in her later life, when the
remembrance of that unhappy woman was associated with a feeling
(perhaps a morbid feeling) of self-reproach. It seemed to be hard on
the poor penitent wretch not to have written to her. Was she still
leading the same dreary life in the mouldering old town? Or had she
made another attempt to return to the ungrateful stage? The gross
husband, impudently presenting himself with his card and his message,
could answer those questions if he could do nothing else. For that
reason only Iris decided that she would receive Mr. Vimpany.
On entering the room, she found two discoveries awaiting her, for which
she was entirely unprepared.
The doctor's personal appearance exhibited a striking change; he was
dressed, in accordance with the strictest notions of professional
propriety, entirely in black. More remarkable still, there happened to
be a French novel among the books on the table--and that novel Mr.
Vimpany, barbarous Mr. Vimpany, was actually reading with an appearance
of understanding it!
"I seem to surprise you," said the doctor. "Is it this?" He held up the
French novel as he put the question.
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