no doubt."

"It's a little hard, isn't it, that Olga would have nothing?"

"In one way, yes. But I'm not sure she isn't safer so." Again there
fell silence.

Again Irene's eyes wandered, and her hands moved nervously.

"There is one thing we must speak of," she said at length "If the case
goes on, Arnold will of course hear of it."

Dr. Derwent looked keenly at her before replying.

"He knows already."

"He knows? How?"

"By common talk in some house he frequents. Agreeable! I saw him this
afternoon; he took me aside and spoke of this. It is his belief that
Hannaford himself has set the news going."

Irene seemed about to rise. She sat straight, every nerve tense, her
face glowing with indignation.

"What an infamy!"

"Just so. It's the kind of thing we're getting mixed up with."

"How did Arnold speak to you? In what tone?"

"As any decent man would--I can't describe it otherwise. He said that
of course it didn't concern him, except in so far as it was likely to
annoy our family. He wanted to know whether you had heard,
and--naturally enough--was vexed that you couldn't be kept out of it.
He's a man of the world, and knows that, nowadays, a scandal such as
this matters very little. Our name will come into it, I fear, but it's
all forgotten in a week or two."

They sat still and brooded for a long time. Irene seemed on the point
of speaking once or twice, but checked herself. When at length her
father's face relaxed into a smile, she rose, said she was weary, and
stepped forward to say good-night.

"We'll have no more of this subject, unless compelled," said the
Doctor. "It's worse that vivisection."

And he settled to a book--or seemed to do so.

CHAPTER XXV

Irene passed a restless night. The snatches of unrefreshing sleep which
she obtained as the hours dragged towards morning were crowded with
tumultuous dreams; she seemed to be at strife with all manner of
people, now defending herself vehemently against some formless
accusation, now arraigning others with a violence strange to her
nature. Worst of all, she was at odds with her father, about she knew
not what; she saw his kind face turn cold and hard in reply to a
passionate exclamation with which she had assailed him. The wan glimmer
of a misty October dawn was very welcome after this pictured darkness.
Yet it brought reflections that did not tend to soothe her mind.

Several letters for her lay on the breakfast-table; among them, on