Iris flushed crimson, for Milly knew well enough that she more than admired the squire. "If I were," she said, evading the question, "I should act in a more honourable way towards him."
"Pooh! pooh! A few words with Mr. Lovel won't hurt him."
"A few words, as you call them, will hurt both men. You can't marry Mr. Lovel."
"I don't want to; nor can you marry Darcy. Look here, my love," continued Milly coolly: "please don't lecture me any more. If you think Darcy ought to know, tell him about Mr. Lovel, then he'll break off the match with me, and perhaps you'll catch him."
"I would not think of doing such a thing!" cried Iris vehemently.
"Why not? I'd do it in your place. You are too good, my dear; too, too good!"
"I'll speak to father," said Iris, who from habit called the doctor so.
"What good will that do? In the first place, he'll probably not be sober; and, in the second, he's too anxious for me to marry Darcy to tell on me. Oh, dear! I wish you were to marry Darcy, Iris; he is just the prig for you!"
Iris looked at the fire with a frown, and not caring to trust herself to speech, ran out of the room and into the garden. There was something so shameless about Milly's speeches and actions with regard to Lovel that she was almost tempted to tell Herne and prevent the match. But then she loved Herne, and her intervention would be put down to jealousy.
"I can do nothing, nothing," she thought; "if Mr. Lovel----"