On her wedding-day, he will see the
transformation that I saw--and he will be dazzled as I was.
She looked at me, as if she expected me to speak.
"I am glad indeed," I said, "that he is out of danger."
She ran to me--she kissed me; I wouldn't have believed it was in her to
give such kisses. "Now I have your sympathy," she said, "my happiness
is complete!" Do you think I was indebted for these kisses to myself or
to that other man? No, no--here is an unworthy doubt. I discard it.
Vile suspicion shall not wrong Iris this time.
And yet----
Shall I go on, and write the rest of it?
Poor, dear Arthur Mountjoy once told me of a foreign author, who was in
great doubt of the right answer to some tough question that troubled
him. He went into his garden and threw a stone at a tree. If he hit the
tree, the answer would be--Yes. If he missed the tree, the answer would
be--No. I am going into the garden to imitate the foreign author. You
shall hear how it ends.
I have hit the tree. As a necessary consequence, I must go on and write
the rest of it.
There is a growing estrangement between Iris and myself--and my
jealousy doesn't altogether account for it. Sometimes, it occurs to me
that we are thinking of what our future relations with Mountjoy are
likely to be, and are ashamed to confess it to each other.
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