She moved towards the door, hesitated, looked about her with
unconsciously appealing eyes. She moved forward again, and on to her
purpose.
"Well?" said the Doctor, who stood before a table covered with
scientific apparatus. "Is it about Olga?"
"No, dear father. It's about Irene."
He smiled; his face softened to tenderness.
"And what about Mam'zelle Wren? It's hard on Wren, all this worry at
such a time."
"If it didn't sound so selfish, I should say it had all happened for
my good. I suppose we can't help seeing the world from our own
little point of view."
"What follows on this philosophy?"
"Something you won't like to hear, I know; but I beg you to be
patient with me. When were you not? I never had such need of your
patience and forbearance as now--Father, I cannot marry Arnold
Jacks. And I have told him that I can't."
The Doctor very quietly laid down a microscopic slide. His forehead
grew wrinkled; his lips came sharply together; he gazed for a moment
at an open volume on a high desk at his side, then said composedly:
"This is your affair, Irene. All I can do is to advise you to be
sure of your own mind."
"I _am_ sure of it--very sure of it!"
Her voice trembled a little; her hand, resting upon the table, much
more.
"You say you have told Jacks?"
"I posted a letter to him this morning."
"With the first announcement of your change of mind?--How do you
suppose he will reply?"
"I can't feel sure.
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