An excellent woman; I can trust her."
"Aunt seemed better when I came away."
"I'm glad."
Volleys of tobacco were the only sign of the stress Dr. Derwent
suffered. He loathed what seemed to him the sordid tragedy of his
sister's life, and he resented as a monstrous thing his daughter's
involvement in such an affair. This was the natural man; the
scientific observer took another side, urging that life was life and
could not be escaped, refine ourselves as we may; also that a
sensible girl of mature years would benefit rather than otherwise by
being made helpful to a woman caught in the world's snare.
"Whilst I was there," pursued Irene, "there came a letter from Mr.
Otway. No, no; not from _him_; from Mr. Piers Otway."
She gave a general idea of its contents, and praised its tone. "I
daresay," threw out her father, almost irritably, "but I shall
strongly advise her to have done with all of that name."
"It's true they are of the same family," said Irene, "but that seems
a mere accident, when one knows the difference between our friend
Mr. Otway and his brothers."
"Maybe; I shall never like the name. Pray don't speak of 'our
friend.' In any case, as you see, there must be an end of that."
"I should like you to see his letter, father. Ask aunt to show it
you."
The Doctor smoked fiercely, his brows dark. Rarely in her lifetime
had Irene seen her father wrathful--save for his outbursts against
the evils of the world and the time.
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