It was a great relief to
her when the door opened and her father came in.
Contrary to his custom, the Doctor had not dressed. He bore a
wearied countenance, but at the sight of Irene tried to smooth away
the lines of disgust.
"It was all I could do to get here by dinner-time. Excuse me,
Mam'zelle Wren; they're the clothes of an honest working-man."
The pet syllable (a joke upon her name as translated by Thibaut
Rossignol) had not been frequent on her father's lips for the last
year or two; be used it only in moments of gaiety or of sadness.
Irene did not wish to speak about her aunt just now, and was glad
that the announcement of dinner came almost at once. They sat
through an unusually silent meal, the few words they exchanged
having reference to public affairs. As soon as it was over, Irene
asked if she might join her father in the library.
"Yes, come and be smoked," was his answer.
This mood did not surprise her. It was the Doctor's principle to
combat anxiety with jests. He filled and lit one of his largest
pipes, and smoked for some minutes before speaking. Irene, still
nervous, let her eyes wander about the book-covered walls; a flush
was on her cheeks, and with one of her hands she grasped the other
wrist, as if to restrain herself from involuntary movement.
"The nurse came," she said at length, unable to keep silence longer.
"That's right.
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