Blind Love

"What have you been about," he asked, "since we had that talk in the

Gardens to-day? Have you looked at your empty purse, and are you wise

enough to take my way of filling it?"

"As long as there's the ghost of a chance left to me," Lord Harry

replied, "I'll take any way of filling my purse but yours."

"Does that mean you have found a way?"

"Do me a favour, Vimpany. Defer all questions till the end of the

week."

"And then I shall have your answer?"

"Without fail, I promise it. Hush!"

Iris returned to the dining-room with her book; and polite Mr. Vimpany

owned in the readiest manner that he had been mistaken.

The remaining days of the week followed each other wearily. During the

interval, Lord Harry's friend carefully preserved the character of a

model guest--he gave as little trouble as possible. Every morning after

breakfast the doctor went away by the train. Every morning (with

similar regularity) he was followed by the resolute Fanny Mere.

Pursuing his way through widely different quarters of Paris, he

invariably stopped at a public building, invariably presented a letter

at the door, and was invariably asked to walk in. Inquiries, patiently

persisted in by the English maid, led in each case to the same result.

The different public buildings were devoted to the same benevolent

purpose. Like the Hotel Dieu, they were all hospitals; and Mr.

Vimpany's object in visiting them remained as profound a mystery as

ever.

Early on the last morning of the week the answer from Lord Harry's

brother arrived. Hearing of it, Iris ran eagerly into her husband's

room. The letter was already scattered in fragments on the floor. What

the tone of the Earl's inhuman answer had been in the past time, that

it was again now.

Iris put her arms round her husband's neck. "Oh, my poor love, what is

to be done?"

He answered in one reckless word: "Nothing!"

"Is there nobody else who can help us?" she asked.

"Ah, well, darling, there's perhaps one other person still left," "Who is the person?"

"Who should it be but your own dear self?"

She looked at him in undisguised bewilderment: "Only tell me, Harry,

what I can do?"

"Write to Mountjoy, and ask him to lend me the money."

He said it. In those shameless words, he said it. She, who had

sacrificed Mountjoy to the man whom she had married, was now asked by

that man to use Mountjoy's devotion to her, as a means of paying his

debts! Iris drew back from him with a cry of disgust.