"I have a right to speak for the family name," said the doctor firmly. "It was mine before it was yours. And I sometimes think, if we lived under more liberal laws, it might be mine after it had ceased to be yours. . . . I cannot see that the family name has been compromised in the slightest degree. This is Irene's first adventure. It will pass away. And even if it does not--he is a manly boy." Mrs. Hardy surveyed her husband hopelessly, then turned to Irene. "Have you made any promises?" "Only that I wouldn't make any promises until he had his chance. That seemed fair." "I suppose you are receiving letters from him?" "No." "None at all?" "None at all." "Why doesn't he write?" For the first time Irene's eyes fell, and the colour mounted richer in her cheeks. She had to confess now, not for herself, but for him. "He can't write," she said. "Merciful Heavens!" exclaimed Mrs. Hardy, collapsing into a chair. "Andrew, bring me a stimulant." The outcome was that Mrs. Hardy insisted upon Irene embarking at once upon a finishing course. When this was completed, as the girl had shown a sense for form and colour, she encouraged her into a special art course. Afterwards they travelled together for a year in Europe. Then, home again, Irene pursued her art, and her mother surrounded her with the social attractions which Dr. Hardy's comfortable income and professional standing made possible. Her purpose was obvious, and but thinly disguised. She hoped that her daughter would outlive her youthful infatuation, and would at length, in a more suitable match, give her heart to one of the numerous eligibles of her circle.