“Sir,” the old man appealed to me down below with a funnily out-flung hand. “I never was so ashamed of myself in my life! But it came on me all of a sudden hearing Miss Iris say, here at the doors of Sutton Marle, in a voice as hard as that ash she was always in love with, that about his lordship doing her too much honour about her keeping her word. I held Miss Iris in my arms, sir, when she wasn’t above a year old, and now--I’m sure I beg your pardon, sir. And yours, Miss Iris. I’m sure I don’t know what’s come over me to-night....” One leather arm had the old man by the shoulder. Iris’s face seemed painted white. “Truble,” she said, so huskily, “I am so sorry to have upset you. You have been faithful to me, Truble, for thirty years, and now, I suppose, you mustn’t love me any more. You don’t love me any more, Truble?” “Miss Iris, Miss Iris! There’s no good comes from loving, I see that!” “Then, Truble, I here and now do release you from giving me a thought ever again. Adieu, Truble.” Her face painted white, her eyes absorbed in what they did not see, she came down to where I stood. “Come,” she said, expressionless. She could make her words into pieces of iron, and I did not dare to look at the motionless old man at the head of the steps. We skirted the house in silence. I supposed we were on a lawn. The rains of yesterday had not softened the drought, the grass was hard as stone under the feet. I said: “Iris, you are moved already--you who were not to be moved by anything that was said!” I felt her fingers tightening round my arm. Hers were strong white fingers. “I hadn’t bargained for Truble. He should have been in bed by now. Often in moments of self-hatred and contempt I have taken a little heart from that old man’s devotion. And he would always send me wishes on my birthday. No, I hadn’t bargained for Truble.... Look!” “Why, they are playing bridge!” “And, dear, how grimly! See, Hilary is looking quite young, he must have a bad hand. And Guy Apollo Belvedere--Oh, he’s thinking!--and then he plays the wrong card! Ah, poor Guy! He always did treat his trumps as though they were tulips, with too much respect. And Sir Maurice! Now, dear heart, what do you think of Sir Maurice? Isn’t he the handsome soldier!” “Oh, handsome! Napier with a gay sinner’s face....” “Judge him for me! Oh, do! Here we are, conspirators, whispering. Now, judge me, first, Mr. Townshend of Magralt.” “Iris, must I! Can I? I can’t!” “Of course you must, can, will! Speak without thinking. It is only thus that truth is made.” “He is a good man. His goodness is supported by his principles, his kindness is rebuked by his prejudices. He is not a weak man, but he is the weakest man in that room. He has loved but one woman in his life, and she has crucified his heart on a hundred carnal Calvarys. But he still loves her, and that is why he is the weakest man in that room.”