"If I could claim a sovereign," he said, "for every quarrel between

Mrs. Vimpany and myself, I put it at a low average when I declare that

I should be worth a thousand pounds. How does your lordship stand in

that matter? Shall we say a dozen breaches of the marriage agreement up

to the present time?"

"Say two--and no more to come!" his friend answered cheerfully.

"No more to come!" the doctor repeated. "My experience says plenty more

to come; I never saw two people less likely to submit to a peaceable

married life than you and my lady. Ha! you laugh at that? It's a habit

of mine to back my opinion. I'll bet you a dozen of champagne there

will be a quarrel which parts you two, for good and all, before the

year is out. Do you take the bet?"

"Done!" cried Lord Harry. "I propose my wife's good health, Vimpany, in

a bumper. She shall drink confusion to all false prophets in the first

glass of your champagne!"

The post of the next morning brought with it two letters.

One of them bore the postmark of London, and was addressed to Lady

Harry Norland. It was written by Mrs. Vimpany, and it contained a few

lines added by Hugh Mountjoy. "My strength is slow in returning to me"

(he wrote); "but my kind and devoted nurse says that all danger of

infection is at an end. You may write again to your old friend if Lord

Harry sees no objection, as harmlessly as in the happy past time. My

weak hand begins to tremble already. How glad I shall be to hear from

you, it is, happily for me, quite needless to add."

In her delight at receiving this good news Iris impulsively assumed

that her husband would give it a kindly welcome on his side; she

insisted on reading the letter to him. He said coldly, "I am glad to

hear of Mr. Mountjoy's recovery"--and took up the newspaper. Was this

unworthy jealousy still strong enough to master him, even at that

moment? His wife had forgotten it. Why had he not forgotten it too?

On the same day Iris replied to Hugh, with the confidence and affection

of the bygone time before her marriage. After closing and addressing

the envelope, she found that her small store of postage stamps was

exhausted, and sent for her maid. Mr. Vimpany happened to pass the open

door of her room, while she was asking for a stamp; he heard Fanny say

that she was not able to accommodate her mistress. "Allow me to make

myself useful," the polite doctor suggested. He produced a stamp, and

fixed it himself on the envelope. When he had proceeded on his way

downstairs, Fanny's distrust of him insisted on expressing itself. "He

wanted to find out what person you have written to," she said. "Let me

make your letter safe in the post." In five minutes more it was in the

box at the office.




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