"Will you think the worse of me," she began, "if I own that I had
little expectation of seeing you again?"
"Certainly not, Iris."
"Consider my situation," she went on. "When I remember how you tried
(oh, conscientiously tried!) to prevent my marriage--how you predicted
the miserable results that would follow, if Harry's life and my life
became one--could I venture to hope that you would come here, and judge
for yourself? Dear and good friend, I have nothing to fear from the
result; your presence was never more welcome to me than it is now!"
Whether it was attributable to prejudice on Mountjoy's part, or to keen
and just observation, he detected something artificial in the ring of
her enthusiasm; there was not the steady light of truth in her eyes,
which he remembered in the past and better days of their companionship.
He was a little--just a little--irritated. The temptation to remind her
that his distrust of Lord Harry had once been her distrust too, proved
to be more than his frailty could resist.
"Your memory is generally exact," he said; "but it hardly serves you
now as well as usual."
"What have I forgotten?"
"You have forgotten the time, my dear, when your opinion was almost as
strongly against a marriage with Lord Harry as mine.
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