He wanted to know whether you had heard,
and--naturally enough--was vexed that you couldn't be kept out
of it. He's a man of the world, and knows that, nowadays, a scandal
such as this matters very little. Our name will come into it, I
fear, but it's all forgotten in a week or two."
They sat still and brooded for a long time. Irene seemed on the
point of speaking once or twice, but checked herself. When at length
her father's face relaxed into a smile, she rose, said she was
weary, and stepped forward to say good-night.
"We'll have no more of this subject, unless compelled," said the
Doctor. "It's worse that vivisection."
And he settled to a book--or seemed to do so.
CHAPTER XXV
Irene passed a restless night. The snatches of unrefreshing sleep
which she obtained as the hours dragged towards morning were crowded
with tumultuous dreams; she seemed to be at strife with all manner
of people, now defending herself vehemently against some formless
accusation, now arraigning others with a violence strange to her
nature. Worst of all, she was at odds with her father, about she
knew not what; she saw his kind face turn cold and hard in reply to
a passionate exclamation with which she had assailed him. The wan
glimmer of a misty October dawn was very welcome after this pictured
darkness. Yet it brought reflections that did not tend to soothe her
mind.
Several letters for her lay on the breakfast-table; among them, one
from Arnold Jacks, which she opened hurriedly.
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