Godfrey Harland’s character was of the lowest type. He was obstinate, vicious, and cruel. But he was also hot blooded, and his hot nature not being under any sort of control, made him a very ardent lover when humoured, and equally dangerous when opposed. To thwart him was to rouse the temper of a fiend. To give in to him was to deal with a brute. He was fierce and unreasonable in his love--jealous and revengeful in his hate--and selfish and cunning in every phase of life. It was hard to say in which mood his wife had learned to dislike and fear him most, but it was as much as her life was worth to oppose him in either. Just now, as she saw the fumes of the brandy had recalled some of his softer feelings for her, she resolved, if possible, to turn the fact to her own advantage. ‘That’s good,’ he said, as he drained the tumbler. ‘By Jove! Childie! you’re looking very pretty to-night. Come here and sit on my knee.’ Iris shuddered at the request, but she complied with it. Nay, more, this wolf in sheep’s clothing smiled upon him as she twined her fingers softly in the dark curls of her husband’s hair. ‘Won’t you give me some money, Godfrey?’ she murmured. ‘You know that I _must_ have it. Just leave me enough to go on with for a month, and I’ll be satisfied.’ ‘Well! how much do you want, you jade?’ ‘Twenty pounds!’ said Iris boldly. ‘Twenty fiddlesticks! Why, I haven’t got twenty pence about me.’ ‘Oh yes, you have!’ she said, coaxingly. ‘Just look, and you’ll find it, Godfrey. You couldn’t go abroad without _some_ ready money, you know.’ He fumbled about in his pockets then, and brought out the pile of notes and gold which had been given him in exchange for Mr Vansittart’s cheque. Iris saw them, and calculated their amount almost to a pound, but she was too discreet to say so. Godfrey separated a single bank-note from the rest, and held it up to her, saying,-- ‘Now, what am I to have instead of it?’ ‘What do you want, Godfrey?’ ‘Twenty kisses at the very least,’ he replied, devouring her beauty with his amorous eyes. ‘Now, put your pretty arms round my neck, Childie, and give me the whole lot, or you sha’n’t have a sixpence.’ How the woman loathed her task. How she longed to tell this man, who had once seemed as a god in her eyes, that she hated and despised him for his cruelty and infidelity to her, and that she refused to degrade herself further at his command. But the thought of her revenge upheld her. ‘Revenge is sweet,’ says Byron, ‘especially to women.’ The prospect of it was sweet to Iris Harland at that moment, and the thought of destitution and starvation was sore, and so she stooped over her half-drunken husband, and gave him what he had asked for, slowly and deliberately, as if she were performing some painful expiation. ‘That’s a good girl!’ exclaimed Harland, as her penance was concluded. ‘And now you shall have the money.’