His wife joined him.
Not even at the time of the honeymoon had the Irish lord been a more
irresistibly agreeable man than he was on that memorable morning. His
apologies for having failed to return at the right time were little
masterpieces of grace and gaiety. The next best thing to having been
present, at the theatrical performance of the previous night, was to
hear his satirical summary of the story of the play, contrasting
delightfully with his critical approval of the fine art of the actors.
The time had been when Iris would have resented such merciless trifling
with serious interests as this. In these earlier and better days, she
would have reminded him affectionately of her claim to be received into
his confidence--she would have tried all that tact and gentleness and
patience could do to win his confession of the ascendency exercised
over him by his vile friend--and she would have used the utmost
influence of her love and her resolution to disunite the fatal
fellowship which was leading him to his ruin.
But Iris Henley was Lady Harry now.
She was sinking--as Mrs. Vimpany had feared, as Mountjoy had
foreseen--lower and lower on the descent to her husband's level.
Pages:
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415