When the letter was written, Mrs. Borisoff resumed talk in the same
tone as before.
"You have heard of Dr. Derwent's discoveries about diphtheria?--
That's the kind of thing one envies, don't you think? After all,
what can we poor creatures do in this world, but try to ease each
other's pain? The man who succeeds in _that_ is the man I honour."
"I too," said Piers. "But he is lost sight of, nowadays, in
comparison with the man who invents a new gun or a new bullet."
"Yes--the beasts!" exclaimed Mrs. Borisoff, with a laugh. "What a
world! I'm always glad I have no children. But you wanted to speak,
not about Dr. Derwent, but Dr. Derwent's daughter."
Piers bent forward, resting his chin on his hand.
"Tell me about her--will you?"
"There's not much to tell. You knew about the broken-off marriage?"
"I knew it _was_ broken off."
"Why, that's all anyone knows, except the two persons concerned. It
isn't our business. The world talks far too much about such things
--don't you think? when we are civilised, there'll be no such
things as public weddings, and talk about anyone's domestic concerns
will be the grossest impertinence. That's an _obiter dictum_. I was
going to say that Irene lives with her father down in Kent. They
left Bryanston Square half a year after the affair. They wander
about the Continent together, now and then. I like that chumming of
father and daughter; it speaks well for both.
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