Mr. Henley's household had been again established in London, when a

servant appeared one morning with a visiting card, and announced that a

gentleman had called who wished to see Miss Henley. She looked at the

card. The gentleman was Mr. Vimpany.

On the point of directing the man to say that she was engaged, Iris

checked herself.

Mrs. Vimpany's farewell words had produced a strong impression on her.

There had been moments of doubt and gloom in her later life, when the

remembrance of that unhappy woman was associated with a feeling

(perhaps a morbid feeling) of self-reproach. It seemed to be hard on

the poor penitent wretch not to have written to her. Was she still

leading the same dreary life in the mouldering old town? Or had she

made another attempt to return to the ungrateful stage? The gross

husband, impudently presenting himself with his card and his message,

could answer those questions if he could do nothing else. For that

reason only Iris decided that she would receive Mr. Vimpany.

On entering the room, she found two discoveries awaiting her, for which

she was entirely unprepared.

The doctor's personal appearance exhibited a striking change; he was

dressed, in accordance with the strictest notions of professional

propriety, entirely in black. More remarkable still, there happened to

be a French novel among the books on the table--and that novel Mr.

Vimpany, barbarous Mr. Vimpany, was actually reading with an appearance

of understanding it!

"I seem to surprise you," said the doctor. "Is it this?" He held up the

French novel as he put the question.

"I must own that I was not aware of the range of your accomplishments,"

Iris answered.

"Oh, don't talk of accomplishments! I learnt my profession in Paris.

For nigh on three years I lived among the French medical students.

Noticing this book on the table, I thought I would try whether I had

forgotten the language--in the time that has passed (you know) since

those days. Well, my memory isn't a good one in most things, but

strange to say (force of habit, I suppose), some of my French sticks by

me still. I hope I see you well, Miss Henley. Might I ask if you

noticed the new address, when I sent up my card?"

"I only noticed your name."

The doctor produced his pocket-book, and took out a second card. With

pride he pointed to the address: "5 Redburn Road, Hampstead Heath."

With pride he looked at his black clothes. "Strictly professional,

isn't it?" he said. "I have bought a new practice; and I have become a

new man. It isn't easy at first. No, by jingo--I beg your pardon--I was

about to say, my own respectability rather bothers me; I shall get used

to it in time. If you will allow me, I'll take a liberty. No offence, I

hope?"




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