No! he was still admiring her.
"On my word of honour," he burst out, "you fascinate me. What an
imagination you have got! One of these days, Iris, I shall be prouder
of you than ever; I shall find you a famous literary character. I don't
mean writing a novel; women who can't even hem a handkerchief can write
a novel. It's poetry I'm thinking of. Irish melodies by Lady Harry that
beat Tom Moore. What a gift! And there are fortunes made, as I have
heard, by people who spoil fair white paper to some purpose. I wish I
was one of them."
"Have you no more to say to me?" she asked.
"What more should there be? You wouldn't have me take you seriously, in
what you have just said of Vimpany?"
"Why not?"
"Oh, come, come, my darling! Just consider. With a bedroom empty and
waiting, upstairs, is my old Vimpany to be sent to quarters for the
night among strangers? I wouldn't speak harshly to you, Iris, for the
whole world; and I don't deny that the convivial doctor may be
sometimes a little too fond of his drop of grog. You will tell me,
maybe, that he hasn't got on nicely with his wife; and I grant it.
There are not many people who set such a pretty example of matrimony as
we do.
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