LITMIR.BIZ

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became an irritation--due in part to the slight headache, coming and going, which reminded her of her bad night. Among the things she meant to do this morning was the writing of several letters to so-called friends, who had addressed her in the wonted verbiage on the subject of her engagement. Five minutes proved the task impossible. She tore up a futile attempt at civility, and rose from the desk with all her nerves quivering.

      "How well I understand," she said to herself, "why men swear!"

      At eleven o'clock, unable to endure the house, she dressed for going out, and drove to Mrs. Hannaford's.

      Olga was not at home. Before going into her aunt's room, Irene spoke with the nurse, who had no very comforting report to make; Mrs. Hannaford could not sleep, had not closed her eyes for some four-and-twenty hours; Dr. Derwent had looked in this morning, and was to return later with another medical man. The patient longed for her niece's visit; it might do good.

      She stayed about an hour, and it was the most painful hour her life had yet known. The first sight of Mrs. Hannaford's face told her how serious this illness was becoming; eyes unnaturally wide, lips which had gone so thin, head constantly moving from side to side as it lay back on the cushion of the sofa, were indications of suffering which made Irene's heart ache. In a faint, unsteady, lamenting voice, the poor woman talked ceaselessly; now of the wrong that was being done her, now of her miseries in married life, now again of her present pain. Once or twice Irene fancied her delirious, for she seemed to speak without consciousness of a hearer. To the inquiry whether it was in her niece's power to be of any service, she answered at first with sorrowful negatives, but said presently that she would like to see Piers Otway; could Irene write to him, and ask him to come?

      "He shall come," was the reply.

      On going down, Irene met her cousin, just returned. To her she spoke of Mrs. Hannaford's wish.

      "I promised he should be sent for. Will you do it, Olga?"

      "It is already done," Olga answered. "Did she forget? One of the things I went out for was to telegraph to him."

      They gazed at each other with distressful eyes.

      "Oh, what does the man deserve who has caused this?" exclaimed Olga, who herself began to look ill. "It's dreadful! I am afraid to go into the room. If I had someone here to live with me!"

      Irene's instinct was to offer to come, but she remembered the difficulties. Her duties at home were obstacles sufficient. She had to content herself with promising to call as often as possible.

      Returning to Bryanston Square, she thought with annoyance of the possibility that her father and Piers Otway might come face to face in that house. Never till now had she taxed her father with injustice. It seemed to her an intolerable thing that the blameless man should be made to share in obloquy merited by his brother. And what memory was this which awoke in her? Did not she herself once visit upon him a fault in which he had little if any part? She recalled that evening, long ago, at Queen's Gate, when she was offended by the coarse behaviour of Piers Otway's second brother. True, there was something else that moved her censure on that occasion, but she would scarcely have noticed it save for the foolish incident at the door. Fortune was not his friend. She thought of the circumstances of his birth, which had so cruelly wronged him when Jerome Otway died. Now, more likely than not, her father would resent his coming to Mrs. Hannaford's, would see in it something suspicious, a suggestion of base purpose.

      "I can't stand that!" Irene exclaimed to herself. "If he is calumniated, I shall defend him, come of it what may!"

      At luncheon, Dr. Derwent was grave and disinclined to converse. On learning where Irene had been, he nodded, making no remark. It was a bad sign that his uneasiness could no longer be combated with a dry joke.

      As three o'clock drew near, Irene made no preparation for going out. She sat in the drawing-room, unoccupied, and was found thus when Arnold Jacks entered.

      "You got my note?" he began, with a slight accent of surprise.

      Irene glanced at him, and perceived that he did not wear his wonted countenance. This she had anticipated, with an uneasiness which now hardened in her mind to something like resentment.

      "Yes. I hoped you would excuse me. I have a little headache."

      "Oh, I'm sorry!"

      He was perfectly suave. He looked at her with a good-natured anxiety. Irene tried to smile.

      "You won't mind if I leave all that to you? Your judgment is quite enough. If you really like the house, take it at once. I shall be delighted."

      "It's rather a responsibility, you know. Suppose we wait till to-morrow?"

      Irene's nerves could not endure an argument. She gave a strange laugh, and exclaimed:

      "Are you afraid of responsibilities? In this case, you must really face it. Screw up your courage."

      Decidedly, Arnold was not himself. He liked an engagement of banter; it amused him to call out Irene's spirit, and to conquer in the end by masculine force in guise of affectionate tolerance. To-day he seemed dull, matter-of-fact, inclined to vexation; when not speaking, he had a slightly absent air, as if ruminating an unpleasant thought.

      "Of course I will do as you wish, Irene. Just let me describe the house----"

      She could have screamed with irritation.

      "Arnold, I entreat you! The house is nothing to me. I mean, one will do as well as another, if _you_ are satisfied."

      "So be it. I will never touch on the subject again."

      His tone was decisive. Irene knew that he would literally keep his word. This was the side of his character which she liked, which had always impressed her; and for the moment her nerves were soothed.

      "You will forgive me?" she said gently.

      "Forgive you for having a headache?--Will it prevent you from coming to us this evening?"

      "I should be grateful if you let me choose another day."

      He did not stay very long. At leave-taking, he raised her hand to his lips, and Irene felt that he did it gracefully. But when she was alone again, his manner, so slightly yet so noticeably changed, became the harassing subject of her thought. That the change resulted from annoyance at the scandal in her family she could not doubt; such a thing would be hard for Arnold to bear. When were they to speak of it? Speak they must, if the affair went on to publicity. And, considering the natural difficulty Arnold would find in approaching such a subject, ought not she to take some steps of her own initiative?

      By evening, she saw the position in a very serious light. She asked herself whether it did not behove her to offer to make an end of their engagement.

      "Your aunt has brain fever," said Dr. Derwent, in the library after dinner. And Irene shuddered with dread.

      Early next morning she accompanied her father to Mrs. Hannaford's. The Doctor went upstairs; Irene waited in the dining-room, where she was soon joined by Olga. The girl's face was news sufficient; her mother grew worse--had passed a night of delirium. Two nurses were in the house, and the medical man called every few hours. Olga herself looked on the point of collapse; she was haggard with fear; she trembled and wept. In spite of her deep concern and sympathy, Irene's more courageous temper reproved this weakness, wondered at it as unworthy of a grown woman.

      "Did Mr. Otway come?" she asked, as soon as It was possible to converse.

      "Yes. He was a long time in mother's room, and just before he left her your father came."

      "They met?"

      "No. Uncle seemed angry when I told him. He said, 'Get rid of him at once!' I suppose he dislikes him because of his brother. It's very unjust."

      Irene

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