Is this bitter? Perhaps it is. Tear it off, and light your pipe with

it.

Well, the correspondence relating to the sick man continued every day;

and every day--oh, Vimpany, another concession to my jealousy!--she

handed the letters to me to read. I made excuses (we Irish are good at

that, if we are good at nothing else), and declined to read the medical

reports. One morning, when she opened the letter of that day, there

passed over her a change which is likely to remain in my memory as long

as I live. Never have I seen such an ecstasy of happiness in any

woman's face, as I saw when she read the lines which informed her that

the fever was mastered. Iris is sweet and delicate and

bright--essentially fascinating, in a word. But she was never a beautiful

woman, until she knew that Mountjoy's life was safe; and she will never

be a beautiful woman again, unless the time comes when my death leaves

her free to marry him. 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.

Sometimes--and perhaps this second, and easiest, guess may be the right

one--I am apt to conclude that we are only anxious about money matters.

I am waiting for her to touch on the subject, and she is waiting for

me; and there we are at a deadlock.




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