"The telegram expresses my wishes," she said. "Have you any objection
to my leaving you?"
"None whatever," he answered eagerly. "Go, by all means."
If it had still been possible for her to hesitate, that reply would
have put an end to all further doubt. She turned away to leave the
room. He followed her to the door.
"I hope you don't think there is any want of sympathy on my part," he
said. "You are quite right to go to your father. That was all I meant."
He was agitated, honestly agitated, while he spoke. Iris saw it, and
felt it gratefully. She was on the point of making a last appeal to his
confidence, when he opened the door for her. "Don't let me detain you,"
he said. His voice faltered; he suddenly turned aside before she could
look at him.
Fanny was waiting in the hall, eager to see the telegram. She read it
twice and reflected for a moment. "How often do things fit themselves
to one's wishes in this convenient way?" she asked herself. "It's
lucky," she privately decided--"almost too lucky. Let me pack up your
things," she continued, addressing her mistress, "while I have some
time to myself. Mr. Oxbye is asleep."
As the day wore on, the noble influences in the nature of Iris, failing
fast, yet still at rare intervals struggling to assert themselves,
inspired her with the resolution to make a last attempt to give her
husband an opportunity of trusting her.
Pages:
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418