‘Iris,’ said Vernon suddenly, ‘tell me all about your marriage. I never heard more than the mere facts. I don’t even know your married name, unless it was “Douglas.” But why do you call yourself “_Miss_?” Why are you going out to Dunedin? What was your husband, and when did he die? Would it be painful for you to tell me all this?’ ‘Very painful. Please don’t ask me. My past life is like a bad dream to me.’ ‘Then you were not happy with him?’ ‘No.’ ‘Did he dare to ill-treat you?’ exclaimed Vernon. Iris was silent. ‘My God!’ cried the young man fiercely; ‘were he only on earth, he should answer to me for this.’ ‘Hush! hush! Mr Blythe. Let us drop the subject. It is all over now,’ said Iris trembling. ‘But _is_ it all over? Can any future life (however happy) give you back your peace of mind, your lovely, girlish innocence, your health and strength? I parted with you rich in every gift that youth and hope can give--able and willing to speak of yourself, your past and your future; I meet you again, broken in health and spirits, with dark passages in your life which you dare not speak of--with no prospects, and no friends. Iris, it is killing me! I was a boy then, it is true, without future, or experience, or anything to recommend me in your eyes. But I _loved_ you, passionately and devotedly, and even though you did not love me, I could have made you happier than this. Oh, why did you throw yourself away on a man who could not appreciate you?’ ‘How can I answer a question to you which I cannot answer to myself. I suppose I was mad, or blind. He was good-looking, and an adept at deception, and I was too inexperienced to distinguish the true metal from the false. Don’t blame me for it too much, Mr Blythe. I liked you very much. I felt honoured by your preference, and I have never forgotten it since. But you seemed such a boy to me then, and I did not know--I could not tell--’ she faltered, breaking down. ‘But I am not a boy now,’ urged Vernon eagerly; ‘I was twenty-five last birthday. You will not accuse me again of not knowing my own mind. Oh, Iris, I have never ceased to love, and dream of you. In my lonely watches, in tempests and in calm--from the torrid to the frigid zone--it has been all the same. Your dear image, the echo of your voice, the crumbs of comfort you threw to me in my distress, have been hugged to my heart as its best treasures. And it will be so till I die, even should I live for another half century.’ ‘What am I to say to you?’ she answered, weeping, ‘except that it can never, _never_ be. Oh, Mr Blythe, don’t talk to me of love. It is useless! It can end in nothing! I--I--must not listen to you.’ ‘But _why_? What is the obstacle? Do you love any one else?’ Iris shook her head. ‘And do you dislike me?’ She did not shake her head this time, but she looked up at the sky, and he could see the large tears that stood in her eyes, course slowly down her cheeks.