Blind Love

Her eyes eagerly searched her husband's face; she looked there for

indulgence, she looked for conviction. 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. Poor humanity--there's all that's to be said about it. But when

you tell me that Vimpany is a bad man, and the worst friend I could

possibly have, and so forth--what better can I do than set it down to

your imagination? I've a pretty fancy, myself; and I think I see my

angel inventing poetical characters, up among congenial clouds. What's

the matter? Surely, you haven't done breakfast yet?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to leave me?"

"I am going to my room."

"You're in a mighty hurry to get away. I never meant to vex you, Iris.

Ah, well, if you must leave the table, I'll have the honour of opening

the door for you, at any rate. I wonder what you're going to do?"

"To cultivate my imagination," she answered, with the first outbreak of

bitterness that had escaped her yet.

His face hardened. "There seems to be something like bearing malice in

this," he said. "Are you treating me, for the first time, to an

exhibition of enmity? What am I to call it, if it's not that?"